The King And I
by Rumpleteasza
Summary: One Queen. Two Kings. Murder, disappearance, treason, conspiracy... Well, what more could one expect from the royal family of Mournhold née Wayrest?
1. Foreword

**A/N: **Hello. I am an Elder Scrolls Fanfiction Lurker. I have been lurking for a good deal of time now – since before we got the Morrowind section, when Merlac started his novelisation of the game and Anneke's _Morrowind Cooking Extravaganza_ hadn't disappeared into the lesser-known reaches of oblivion.

Those of you who have played Tribunal may be familiar with Helseth, current king of Morrowind. Less of you may know that he and Barenziah were also prominent characters in the Elder Scrolls II, _Daggerfall_. Even less of you may know that, hey! Helseth had a sister, didn't he?

Helsth's sister, Morgiah, was an extremely interesting character in _Daggerfall_. The player-character had to do a couple of quests for her involving a correspondence with the legendary King of Worms, leader of the Necromancers. The letters read as such:

_Sire,_

_ I agree to your terms. I will give you my first and you will exert your influence on the King of Firsthold on Sumurset Isle. Only you can let him speak with his dead son. For that, he would even marry Nulfaga!_

_ -M_

The King's response:

_Princess,_

_ Done._

_ -King of Worms_

On completion of this seemingly simple courier quest, the nature of this pact is never mentioned again. TESII's manual, The _Daggerfall Chronicles_, has this to say on the subject of the Morgiah/King of Worms quest:

_This sets up part of the story for the sequel to Daggerfall. Therefore, no more will be said of it._

...But it doesn't, and when Morrowind came round I was heartbroken to see that Morgiah was nowhere to be found. How rude! The Bethesda developers set up a deliciously tantalising hint involving two of the juiciest characters in the series, and they never followed it through!

Well, aren't they lucky? I've done it for them. :)

This story is set two years after the ending of Morrowind/Tribunal, in the year 3E 429. It incorporates plots, characters and elements from all four Elder Scrolls games to date (ETA: and as of 2011, also touches of Skyrim). Even though it contains a huge amount of geeky lore breadcrumbs for those diligent enough to spot them, I have tried to make it accessible enough that those unfamiliar with the earlier games can still enjoy the story. Happy reading - I really hope it's as much fun to read as it was to write.

Love, Rumms x x


	2. Prologue

The King And I

Prologue

* * *

_Sun's Dawn 3E429_

* * *

In a tower in the Azura Coast region, the heart of Telvanni country, a man is standing overlooking his life's work. His name is Divayth Fyr, and in ten minutes he is going to die.

The tower itself is typical of the Telvanni style; it is isolated and organic, grown by magic and alive in its own right. Telvanni mages are solitary creatures. They run their household by their own rules, away from the eyes and ears of others.

Divayth Fyr's life work is the Corprusarium in the lowest level of his home. He is not quite a scientist, nor a healer, nor an alchemist, but perhaps a strange mix of the three. Occasionally rumours of his connections with the Psijic Order circulate. That he is an accomplished practitioner of magic there is no doubt, but though many people know of his experiments, few know of the Corprusarium. It is even rarer knowledge that Divayth Fyr has actually created a cure (of sorts) for the Corprus disease; in fact at this point in time only four people in all Tamriel are aware of his discovery and its implications. One, of course, is Divayth himself. The second and third are an Imperial Blade Spymaster and his young charge, both sworn to secrecy. The fourth is a Dwemer, a well-kept secret himself.

Divayth Fyr has not used his creation to cure the diseased wretches in the Corprusarium. He has distributed it twice, and found it successful – but that was a year and a half ago now, and since then Dagoth Ur has been defeated and his blighted realm purged. There is no longer any threat of Corprus from Red Mountain. Victims of the disease are no longer plentiful and disposable to Ser Divayth; they have become an endangered species, a dying breed. To cure them would be to eradicate them, and make his long years of research meaningless. And so in the past year he has extended the vaults below Tel Fyr and collected every last remaining Corprus victim on Vvardenfell – almost a hundred, and each as precious to him as a diamond.

During the last months, Divayth Fyr has achieved another milestone in his experimentation. He has known for a long time, of course, that not all the symptoms of the affliction are a hindrance. Greatly advanced strength, speed and endurance, for example; immunity to all other diseases. Two days ago he created an elixir that infects the drinker with Corprus; a refined Corprus that contains only the benefits of the disease, without the unnatural growth of the body and the pain that follows. Two days ago he turned Corprus into a blessing instead of a curse, and now he has decided to test it.

He has upwards of twenty samples of the elixir in his cabinet. He decides he will run a trial on one of his victims, and if all goes well, drink the elixir himself.

He is surprised, therefore, that upon reaching his cabinet every single one of the sample phials is missing.

"Master?"

He turns to find his daughter standing in the doorway.

"Delte, have you or any of the other girls tampered with my cabinet?"

She looks puzzled. "No, we know not to go near your experiments. Master, has your visitor been and gone already?"

He pauses. "Visitor?"

"The man in the black robe. The slaves let him in a few minutes ago. He said he wished to speak to you."

He tears his eyes away from the empty space in the cabinet slowly. "I have had no visitor…"

Both father and daughter hear the tinkle of a sample-phial and the drawing of a dagger too late.

As no-one knew about the Dwemer in the Corprusarium, no-one knew that he vanished the same day. Fishermen and travellers who noticed an unusual lack of activity around Tel Fyr, or perhaps a faint wisp of red smoke drifting from its highest tower, would leave well alone. As explained, Telvanni mages are solitary creatures.

* * *

Three hundred leagues away in the easternmost province of High Rock, the imposing castle of Shedungent thrusts its crumbling arms into the wilderness. No animals come close to this formidable structure. Fetid lichen hangs limply from the battlements, like broken wrists. The castle extends for many more miles underground than it does above, but the most interesting thing resides in the audience chamber only yards beyond the entrance: Nulfaga.

There was a time when the name of Nulfaga was familiar to everyone in High Rock, from the humblest peasant to the Illiac royal families. But time has passed, and Nulfaga is decrepit now, older than any Breton of her time; her part in the history of the Illiac Bay is all but forgotten. As her senility grows her immense power becomes wayward, unchecked, unfocused. She neither wants nor has the means to receive news of the outside world, retreating instead into her own thoughts, which are wandering and dangerous.

So when the black-robed visitors arrived saying they had come to take care of her, she did not object or send them away, thinking that King Gothryd of Daggerfall must have finally remembered his grandmother and lavished some affection on her. The robed strangers were quiet and helpful; they brought her food, eased her out of her filthy rags and into clothes of good craftsmanship, kept her company, cured her loneliness. They were her guardians and companions. In turn, she spoke to them freely of arcane secrets that ten years ago she would rather have died than revealed – but these strangers were so kind, and their curiosity so simple and innocent, that she found it a joy to teach them all she knew. As their curiosity grew, she divulged her magical art with willingness and affection...

Never noticing the impenetrable seal that appeared on the castle door.

Or the increasingly dark nature of the knowledge her helpers sought.

She did not register the particular interest they had in Aetherius; the magic-plane, the twin of Oblivion, the Aedra-home of which Nulfaga had extraordinary knowledge and control. As time went on and she came to rely more and more heavily on her carers, their influence over Aetherius grew as did their influence over her.

Nulfaga saw none of this. Her loneliness was no longer. She was the happiest she had ever been in her life.

* * *

Back on Vvardenfell and a far cry from High Rock's Wrothgarian Mountains, the Tribunal god Vivec was deep in contemplation.

It was rare not to find Vivec in contemplation these days. Since the Heart of Lorkhan and the source of the Tribunal's godhood fell to the Nerevarine's fury a year ago, his power was slowly but surely waning. How, it was difficult to say, for as no-one but the Tribunal have ever become gods, naturally no-one could say what it would be like to _stop_ being one.

It is impossible for a mortal to comprehend the consciousness of a god. A mortal's mind is not built for such a thing, and would instantly deteriorate; some say this is how Nulfaga's madness began to grow. But few Dunmer have ever heard of Nulfaga, and their interest lies only with their own gods. Certainly it is for this reason that the once-benevolent Almalexia fell to insanity, and for her subsequent tragic demise.

Vivec's divinity would surely wane as time went on without the Heart. Did that mean that his mind would slowly again become mortal? If so, the inability to contain his remaining godhood would surely crumble his psyche. Perhaps it has already begun. Perhaps that is why, when the black-robed messengers arrived, he welcomed with them with far less shrewdness than he might once have shown.

The robed figures stood quietly in the High Temple, watching the god carefully. His huge liquid eyes were open, but he made no move to acknowledge them; in fact, he made no move at all. The robed figures were patient. They waited.

Time passed. Something in the eyes of the god seemed to change – a subtle shift of consciousness, a flicker of recognition. Gradually, his head moved. He looked from one robed figure to another as one who has come out of a long sleep, disorientated.

He spoke slowly. "I did not summon you."

The middle figure stood forward. "My Lord, we have been sent by the Archcanon Saryoni."

There was no reply; only that wide, soft, golden-eyed gaze.

The middle figure continued. "We have dire need of your power and wisdom. Your people are in grave peril. An enemy has come upon us."

The god had almost slipped away from the conversation, they could tell, but he surfaced again at this solemn pronouncement.

"An… enemy?"

"Your people call you, my Lord. They have need of your love and your wisdom. Will you come with us, and aid them in their hour of greatest need?"

A spark glinted in the god's eyes. If nothing else, he had always been devoted to the welfare of his beloved citizens.

"Their hour of greatest need… Yes. Yes, I shall come. You shall tell me of this enemy on our way."

The robed figures bowed low.

The Archcanon Saryoni himself discovered the absence of the god the following week. Confused and desperate, and possessing the rare knowledge that two of the Tribunal had already met untimely ends, he kept the disappearance to himself. He debated what to do by day, and drank large amounts of sujamma by night.


	3. The Lady In Red

The King And I

Chapter One – The Lady In Red

* * *

In the waning light of the 5th of First Seed 3E429, someone in Mournhold brought a glass of wine to her lips, deep in thought.

The wine was good; a heavy, fragrant red. The Dunmer had plenty of native drinks – beer brewed from fermented saltrice, the potent bitter sujamma – but the Royal Princess Morgiah had taken to wine during her abidance in Wayrest, and her appreciation hadn't lessened since her arrival in Morrowind.

The room Morgiah was occupying was more a study than anything else. Bookshelves lined the walls. A comfortable chair flanked an ornately carved desk piled high with correspondence and publishing, at the top of which was the latest issue of Mournhold's controversial political newspaper, the _Common Tongue._The headline emblazoned, "IMPERIAL VISITOR TULIUS CICERO MISSING FOR OVER A MONTH – CITIZENS SUSPECT FOUL PLAY!"

The _Common Tongue_was notoriously melodramatic.

A second issue could be seen half-buried deep beneath the pile, the few visible words reading _'Helseth… most subtle poisoner… by all accounts, King Llethlan died a natural death…'_This particular issue was not available for casual viewing, having been banned and mass-burned by his Majesty the previous year. But no guard, however loyal, would ever dream of carrying out a search in HRH Morgiah's private study.

Morgiah had not been in Morrowind long, though her stay was indefinite. The circumstances of her arrival were not pressed upon by the court, it being vaguely known that she was widowed of an Altmer king somewhere in the Summurset Isles. It was only natural she should want to come back to live among her kin, seeking sanctuary from her grief in the solace of her brother, King Helseth.

But the woman who now sat training a knife-sharp gaze over the latest _Common Tongue_looked anything but grief-stricken. You could almost see the thoughts ticking like clockwork behind the eyes, information meticulously filed and stored and memorised…

In truth, Morgiah was troubled. She had never expected her reunion with Helseth to be something out of a storybook, though she genuinely took pleasure from seeing him again. But although they had been apart for more than a decade, she had retained enough judgement of his character to know that something was amiss. That something was _wrong_.

She couldn't quite put her finger on it. She was aware of the fact that Helseth had grown and changed throughout her long absence, but she was shrewd enough to realise that in their heart of hearts, people rarely transform beyond recognition. Helseth was her brother; they'd played and quarrelled and conspired together for twenty years of childhood. He would never fully be a mystery to her. If he was avoiding her, it must be precisely _because_of this, and that was just one of the things that had sparked a tiny warning-signal in her mind.

He was up to something, and he didn't want her to know what it was.

She was moving around the study in what the casual observer might call an absent-minded manner; gliding along the bookshelves, stopping here, checking a file of documents there, sometimes merely pausing as if lost in thought – but the tiny frown and the concentrated force in her gaze dispelled any illusion of distraction. In her left palm she held something, a pale green jewel or stone, and she was rolling it lightly between her fingers like a conjuror playing a coin-trick…

She stopped abruptly, her attention focused on a volume on the highest shelf. Slowly, she pulled it out, sat in the chair, let it fall open on her lap. The gold lettering on the spine read_ Altmer, Society And Nobility._

Suddenly, her head drooped and the book fell sideways; all at once she looked like what she really was, which was younger than expected, and tired. Her fingers gripped the velvet chair, hard enough to turn pale at the knuckles.

But the mask of composure was back in barely a few seconds. In a moment she was on her feet again, the book replaced and her expression composed and clear, calm and calculated. Never mind that now. It was late; she would think more tomorrow. Smoothing her skirts, she cast a critical eye over the piled documents, trying to return them to some semblance of order. When she was satisfied she pushed the chair neatly under the table, the chain of the green gem wound about her fingers.

The study door closed quietly behind her.

* * *

It was almost sunset, hazy and indistinct, when a figure climbed the many steps that led to the huge doors of Vivec Palace.

The person was no pilgrim, that much was immediately clear. Pilgrims walked with reverence. They stopped many times to take in the spectacular view, the beauty of the palace. They trod the sacred stones with the quiet respect they deserved, attentive to every detail.

There was nothing slow or reverent about this figure's movement. It clumped up the stairs noisily; flippantly, even. Halfway up it paused to shift an enormous warhammer from one shoulder to the other, continuing on with a cheerfully unstoppable gait that was as much a contrast to its surroundings as a rampaging kagouti is to a rosebush.

When it reached the heavy doors of the upper palace it stopped, swinging the hammer down idly with one hand, fumbling in a leather satchel-bag. No Dunmer could have mistaken this behemoth for one of their own race, quiet and graceful and sharp as Dunmer are. But despite the figure's outlandishness, it would nevertheless be instantly recognised by any inhabitant of Vvardenfell; after all, they were not likely to forget the hero who had destroyed Dagoth Ur, purging their land of the Blight disease.

Triumphantly locating the correct key amid hoards of junk and pushing it into the lock, the Nerevarine shoved open the door and stepped inside.

And stopped at once, utterly still, all remnants of flippancy gone in a moment. The hammer no longer swung idly from one hand but was held out at an angle, steady and perfectly balanced. Because the room was empty. The dais was cold and deserted. There should have been someone there, and there wasn't.

The god was gone.

The Nerevarine stood quite still, eyes scanning the room from a helmeted face. Then, with a swish and creak of armour, the door banged and the palace was empty once more.

_The god is gone! The god is gone!_

Dusk light fell over the cantons of Vivec as the Nerevarine clattered back down the steps, across the High Fane, lost to sight behind St Olm's in minutes.

_The god is gone! The god is gone!_

The sunset caught the pinnacle of the temple, twinkling innocently.

* * *

"You're avoiding her."

Helseth looked up from his plate, startled. "I'm sorry?"

The King of Morrowind was taking his evening meal with his mother in the relative solitude of the Northern flank of the castle. In the year of late they had rarely dined together, and in a lull of the hectic city calendar, the precious opportunity was taken at once.

Queen Mother Barenziah's gaze rested steadily on him, shrewd and penetrating. "Your sister," she clarified. "You've hardly seen her since her return. I wonder why?"

Helseth pressed his lips together, stifling an outward show of discomfort. It was true that he had not made an overt effort to approach Morgiah; indeed, even for the estranged siblings they were, their recent lack of contact was unusual. But Helseth had his own reasons for that. Curling his fingers under the table in frustration, he controlled his expression with practised dedication. It was disconcerting enough to know that his mother's eagle eye was trained on his doings in Mournhold, but Morgiah as well? Helseth liked his business to be his own, and was exceptionally good at enforcing this rule regarding anyone but his immediate family.

Helseth admired and respected Barenziah. He loved her, in his own calculating way. He would much rather have her enjoying the respect she deserved in Mournhold instead of back in Wayrest in the presence of his hated stepsister, Elysana. However the fact remained that Helseth reigned _alone, _and was subject to no-one's scrutiny... in theory. His mother, damn her, did not seem to have got the message.

He sipped a mouthful of flin in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. "I certainly have not. As usual, you have jumped to conclusions. I have merely kept a respectful distance, as is proper after the death of her husband."

Barenziah was quiet for a moment. Then- "Do you not think your solace might be more appreciated?"

It was spoken so differently to her usual efficient tone that Helseth was surprised, and for a moment quite unnerved. The idea of Morgiah needing his comfort was so alien that at first his mind went blank, unable to process such a notion.

Curse it! He was so good – so _good_at presenting a formidable front to his subjects and advisors. But to his mother? He might as well be an open book. He now remembered exactly why he didn't suggest these cosy family meals more often.

His habitually composed voice was moody. This was why her presence frustrated him – he wasn't a king to her, he was first and foremost her child.

"I'm sure there are others more suited to the task," he said sullenly, stabbing his fork at an ash-yam with unnecessary force. "After all, we've hardly spoken since she left for Firsthold."

"Since before that, actually. In her last years at Wayrest, I don't recall you actively seeking her out more than a handful of times."

"We both know the pressure I was under," snapped Helseth. "Elysana was on the attack all the time. If I turned my back for a second she would have stabbed it – she'd do anything for sovereignty – and look what happened!"

He was agitated now. These were old grievances; the bitter internal struggle with his stepsister for the Wayrest throne, and his subsequent defeat. Helseth hated defeat. He had been humiliated by Elysana's victory, and his mother was opening old wounds now.

Barenziah looked contrite. "Yes, I know. But – at the risk of broaching a touchy subject – losing Wayrest brought you here, and to the objective observer, the kingdom of Morrowind is vast compared to a singly-ruled city-state of the Illiac Bay. It was apt indeed," she carried on mildly, "that the rapid deaths of King Llethan and his nephew left a vacancy for you."

Helseth froze.

_Don't rise, don't rise_, he repeated like a mantra. At the same time, another voice was screaming _what does she know? What does she suspect? __**How**__ could she suspect_? He drunk from his goblet slowly and mechanically, starved of any response that could placate her.

But there was no need, for Barenziah placed the knife and fork neatly together on her empty plate and rose to her feet. "It is late. Goodnight, Helseth – it is lovely to dine with you when the calendar permits." Smiling as if nothing in their conversation had been awkward or antagonising, she bowed from the room and shut the door gently.

Helseth clenched his fists, his body as taut as a bowstring. Of all the tests of his character he had endured over the years, dinner with his mother proved the most taxing of all.

* * *

**A/N: **I would really love any constructive feedback anyone would like to give. I've got my puppy eyes on and everything.

_(puppy eyes)_

How shameless.

xxx


	4. Breakfast Council Of Three

The King And I

Chapter Two – Breakfast Council Of Three

* * *

In the early hours of the 6th of First Seed, someone in a black robe stole along the streets of Mournhold, a package tightly wrapped in linen cloth under its arm. Contrasted with the person's dark cloak, the cloth was luminously visible in the moonlight; perhaps that was why they were hurrying.

When the figure reached a tradesmen's entrance in the North Wing of the Palace, it disappeared inside. Upon reappearing after half an hour, it discarded the now-empty linen and melted into the shadows.

That same night, a warrior toting a gigantic Dwemer warhammer as if it weighed no more than a toothpick was admitted quietly to the Queen Mother's private quarters. This second person did not reappear the same night. There was a lot to discuss.

* * *

Morgiah awoke from a strangely realistic dream.

That in itself was not particularly out of the ordinary, as Morgiah had been having strangely realistic dreams for a number of years. Some had more impact than others; one night she might dream of being swept away in a waterfall of ghosts, whereas the next might merely be a vision of peasant dressed in First-Age clothes hoeing a garden.

This one, however, involved her brother. She couldn't quite remember what had happened, but she hoped she had misunderstood the knife.

The window was open. There was a pleasantly mild breeze, and the sun was gentle. A maid had fed the fire; it was crackling softly in the hearth. Parting the filmy muslin drapes, Morgiah padded across the carpet and sat cross-legged in front of the grate, where it took less than a moment before her gaze was unfocused and her thoughts far away.

She was still deep in thought as she went into the bathroom, slid into the sunken marble pool, sprinkled the herbs in, washed, wrapped a thick linen cloth around herself, went back to the bedroom, opened the wardrobe and dressed slowly, brushed her hair, slid her feet into her shoes, pulled the bed straight…

There was a knock at the door and the maid came in.

"Morning, your Highness," said the perky Bosmer as she bobbed a curtsey, pigtails peeping out from under her cap. "Don't mind the bed, I'll see to it. I've a message for you from the Queen Mother."

Morgiah left the sheets and looked up curiously. "A message, Kippet? What is it?"

"She asks you join her for breakfast, your Highness. Shall I stoke the fire for when you come back?"

"Thank you; no. I'll go to the study."

"'Highness." The maid bobbed again and disappeared.

Morgiah ran her hand along the walls as she left the room. Each province's different perceptions of 'palace' had always fascinated her. In Wayrest, the stately granite and plush carpets. In Firsthold, the filigree pillars and sculpted glass interiors. In Mournhold, the indoor gardens, the richly polished blue-grey stone smooth as an ice-pond. Yet they were all designed to say to their subjects; reverence me.

People are the same wherever you go, thought Morgiah. Deep down people are all the same.

She opened the door to find her mother waiting.

"Good morning," said Barenziah.

"Good morning," Morgiah replied, pulling the screen quietly across behind her. She made to continue into the parlour, but Barenziah put out a hand.

"Unusual as it is, we… have a guest for breakfast. Someone I should like you to meet, who has something very important to discuss."

Morgiah noted her mother's guarded expression. "Who?"

"The Nerevarine. After an unexpected arrival last night we have had a great deal of strange information to process." Barenziah's hand moved to the door-handle. "I have been… _noticing_ things for a while, and I think the time has come for me to consult my daughter."

Morgiah kept her expression passive, but her mind spun into motion at her mother's words. Had Barenziah, then, picked up on the same things she had?

"Good," she said directly. "There are things I need to discuss with you, too. As for the Nerevarine, I should love to finally meet him. They say he is nigh indestructible."

Inexplicably, Bareziah's mouth twitched at Morgiah's words. "_He_ is anxious to meet you, too," she said with a strange smile. "Come into the parlour and I shall introduce you."

She opened the inner door and gestured inside. Morgiah stepped through and saw a figure decked out to the nines in armour, a huge warhammer propped against the table, a gilded ebony helmet an inch thick…

She blinked as the helmet was discarded onto the table next to the hammer. The apparition before her was female and _very_ blonde. Morgiah could tell without so much as a glance that she had as much magical talent as a piece of wood.

"Hello, your Highness," said the Nerevarine cheerfully.

It took a short moment for Morgiah to regain her composure. "Forgive me," she said, realising the woman must have heard every word of their conversation. "How dull-witted of me to assume…"

The Nerevarine waved her hand complacently and dropped the helmet to the floor with a resounding clunk. "No offence taken," she assured, flumping into a chair at the table set delicately for breakfast. The modestly carved chair gave a protesting creak at the onset of quite a lot of heavy armour.

Morgiah sat down more reservedly, looking from the discarded helmet to the Nerevarine and back again. It was practically impossible to reconcile three inches of demonic-looking ebony with the careless-looking blonde creature in front of her. Not even a woman, she realised. A girl. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, if that.

"Morgiah, I'm delighted for you to meet Nenya, the Nerevarine. We have been in close contact for almost two years now, but something has recently come to my attention that I'd like to discuss with you." Barenziah seated herself, taking a pot of hot water and pouring it over dried kanet-flowers into three cups. "Nenya, if you could bring my daughter up to speed…?"

Nenya took a cup and poured half a jar of honey into it. She didn't seem to be one to mince words. "Vivec is gone, your Highness."

Morgiah paused, her hand hovering over a plate of fruit. "Gone? From the High Fane Palace?"

"Gone. Died. Wandered off. No idea. But he's not there, and by the look of things he hasn't been for some time."

Thoughts were ticking behind Morgiah's eyes.

"How long, would you estimate?"

Nenya blew out her cheeks. "Hard to say; it's not like it's homey up there at the best of times. But there were weeks' worth of spiderwebs in there, and I can't see him having that. Even in the state he's been in recently."

"Does the Archcanon know?"

"We think yes," Barenziah broke in, "because I have been informed he came here only a week ago. Agitated-looking. A very short, low-profile visit…"

Morgiah stared out of the window at the trees blowing. "Then Helseth must know," she said quietly. "He must have come to tell Helseth; now he's gone back to the capital and is keeping the disappearance quiet." She turned to Nenya. "You said there was the possibility of Vivec being dead. And what did you mean by 'the state he's been in recently'?"

"Well, I was just jawing – not sure if he _can_ die, really. But as for his state... are you familiar with the Nerevarine business, your Highness? You weren't here at the time, no?"

"I have heard the rumours…"

"Well," said Nenya, crossing one leg over the other and obliviously smudging mud on the tablecloth, "Dagoth Ur died two years ago because I killed the Heart of Lorkhan. I'm pretty sure you know what that is – the Aedra-relic that gave the Tribunal its godhood in the first Era. It's what keeps them divine. You know why Almalexia went mad?" She narrowed her eyes. "You _do_ know she went mad, don't you, not the rubbish the public believes about her being all serene and reposing in the temple next door?"

Morgiah glanced at her mother, the font of all covert knowledge. "Yes, I knew."

"Almalexia went mad because the Heart was gone, and she was losing her divinity. I haven't got a clue what it's like to become a god, but to _stop_ being one… is it any wonder she went barking? She killed Sotha Sil and almost had me, but as you can probably tell, she came off worse."

"I... see," said Morgiah with practised composure. "Go on."

"So it's only Vivec left now, slowly going mad like Almalexia. I know because I went to see him before the Heart died; he gave me the battle-plans for defeating Dagoth-Ur. I saw what he was like then, and I saw what he was like after, and it wasn't the same. Sometimes I'd go in and he'd take half an hour just to notice I was there. I don't know where he's gone, but it's making me jumpy, I can tell you."

Morgiah was silent for a moment.

"So," she said at last, "Vivec has disappeared, and if we are to take your word for it is on the brink of madness. The archcanon has been seen here, and we must assume that Helseth knows. Then why, in a whole week, has he not done anything about it? Has he said anything to you, Mother?"

"Not a word."

They looked at eachother. Both could tell they were thinking the same thing. "Is it possible he could have orchestrated… but _why_? What would he have to gain?"

Barenziah sipped her tea, face neutral.

Nenya looked from one to the other. "Are you suggesting that the King doesn't want Vivec found?"

"That would be a very dangerous thing to suggest," Barenziah said flatly.

Nenya opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again.

"There is one more thing," Barenziah continued to her daughter. "I have been informed by various sources that unidentified black-robed persons have been entering the North Wing regularly at dark, the most recent of which visits was last night."

"North Wing," Morgiah said. "Helseth's wing."

There was a quiet moment as all three kept to their thoughts. Then: "I think this deserves investigating," Barenziah declared. She looked at her daughter. "I am charging you with this, Morgiah. Estranged as you are, you and Helseth were close at one time. You know how he thinks, you know how he works. Nenya, can I trust you aid my daughter in any way she might see fit?"

Nenya licked her spoon clean and put it demurely back into place next to the bowl. "With pleasure, your Highness."

* * *

Things are stirring. Things that have lain dormant for years and years are being set in motion.

The dais of the last Tribune's palace, bearing nothing but three long-burnt-out torches.

The black-robed figures gathering unobtrusively in the dead shell that was Tel Fyr, slowly taking control of the weird and rambling Corprusarium, and its inflicted inhabitants.

The same shadowy figures in the now-barricaded Shedungent, teasing the century of knowledge from the deranged mind of Nulfaga. Easing away her control of Aetherius, and taking it for themselves.

For Aetherius, the magic-plane, the day-sky, is being utilised once more. This time, not _by_ Nulfaga, but _through_ her.

_And at the centre of it all is Helseth._ An invisible spider brooding in the middle of an invisible web, he is somehow the heart of all these events. How, we do not yet know. But inevitably, indefinitely, he is.

* * *

**A/N:** Nenya is the product of reading too many Discworld books. I always imagined her as some sort of bizarre cross between Carrot from the Night Watch and Avid Merrion from Bo Selecta. Complete with Avid's crazeh swedish accent (look, my mind, I don't even know). Consequently, she's great to play and even more fun to write.

However, I'm trying very hard not to let my own characters take over this story. I've always thought it's pretty logical to assume that people who seek out fanfiction are looking for it because they like the characters which are already established - why else would they want to read more? So I'm doing my best to focus on as many canon characters as possible. Plus, who _wouldn't_ find the Wayrest/Mournhold royal family interesting?

Dear god, Freud would have a field day... :D

xx


	5. Interlude 1 Fiery Night

The King And I

Chapter Three – Interlude One; Fiery Night

* * *

_Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Sun's Height 3E 399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23. _

* * *

The library was very quiet.

There were only two things in the room to be heard. One was the soft dry rasp as Morgiah turned the pages of a book, and the other was the scratching of her tutor's quill. Even their breathing was inaudible.

At length, the tutor stopped writing and looked out of the window. It faced west, and the low evening sun cut through the dusty glass, reflecting off her ornate cloak clasp and the deep crimson of her eyes. Dunmer were not a common sight in High Rock, and it was no coincidence this particular tutor had ended up in Palace service; it was felt that the royal children might respond more readily to a familiar face.

She rose and eased open the heavy lead-latticed panes. It was summer, and the air from the Bjoulsae river was balmy. She allowed herself a moment to bask in the warm breeze, then turned to watch her pupil.

Morgiah was absorbed, learning strange things. Her eyes raked the page with clear cold precision, facts consumed hungrily and stored meticulously. It was this strange mix of passion and clockwork accuracy that had come to fascinate, even secretly unnerve, her tutor. But Morgiah knew none of this. She was reading; her thoughts were on her book, not the woman standing by the window.

The topic of the book was conjuratory theory; in particular, the basics of Necromancy. Morgiah's parents, though naturally of the opinion that Necromancy was not to be practised by persons of good repute, were firm on the idea that no branch of magic should be denied their daughter... provided it was theory only.

Or more accurately, Morgiah's _mother_ was firm on the idea. King Eadwyre was less than comfortable with the extent of his stepdaughter's arcane expertise, though he rarely overruled his wife. But Queen Barenziah was an extraordinary woman, gracious and captivating, strikingly sharp and intelligent. She was observed in varying opinion by the Wayrest public; many resented the idea of a Dunmer and her offspring presiding over a Breton province, but there were some shrewd political minds who realised that while Breton Barenziah was not, capable she certainly was. Thus she remained.

And thus Morgiah read her conjuratory theory unhindered.

_The summonyng of spyryts from Oblyvyon,_ the book told in its faint brown ink, _ys proportyonate to the strengthe and ynfluence of the beyng ynvolved. Whyle the raysyng of a lesser mortale or daedryc spawne maye requyre only the encantatyon of the spelle, to bryng backe a creature of hye power demandes greater attentyon and skyll…_

Her tutor watched with part suspicion, part rueful interest.

…_For these beyngs an addytyonal levele of controle ys requyred. Thys maye be obtayned bye havynge yn thy possessyon an objecte formerlye belongyng to the partycular spyryt. Yn cases of extreme magnytude, thy wyll be compelled to speake the true and byrth-gyven name of the spyryt at the performance of the ceremonye…_

The tutor glanced out the window, then corked the ink-bottle and gathered up her papers. Morgiah looked up at the sudden noise, unnaturally loud in the stillness of the library air.

"Supper already, Karethys?" she inquired, looking out the window to the position of the sun.

"Yes. You shall be late."

Casting a flickering look of regret at the open book, Morgiah stood up from the table and rescued her wrap before it caught under the chair-leg. Draping it over one arm, for there was no real need for it in the pleasant summer warmth, both pupil and tutor left the library in quiet dusk light. The books stayed open on the table, ready for tomorrow's lesson.

The sun fell across the floor of the upper West Gallery, lined with windows to catch the evening light. It plucked a note of crimson from Morgiah's dress that sang out against the deep turquoise carpet, a little patch of red that glowed defiantly until her Highness turned a corner down the South Stairs, parting with her tutor, out of the sun.

Morgiah was deep in thought.

She was good at thinking. She was also good at keeping what she was thinking to herself, something which inspired both misgiving and unfriendliness in the members of the Wayrest court. How could you relate to those impassive Dunmer eyes? How could you find common ground, root out a weakness, manipulate the conversation? There were simply no cues to take your lead from.

Today was the 29th Sun's Height. Fiery Night, it was called. The centre of the year. The Palace marked it as usual with a feast, a rare chance to bring the family together. The Wayrestian Royals seldom took their meals together, for a number of reasons.

The banquet-door was opened for her by a footman. The great hall was already full of celebrating nobles. On the dais at the high table sat, for all intents and purposes, her family.

At the centre: Eadwyre, her stepfather. Morgiah's true father was long dead, a relic of the strife at the time of Uriel VII. King Eadwyre was a heavily-built Breton, hair yellow as corn and curly as a babe's. A massive blunt presence, he alternated frequently between booming laughs, blustering irritation and bursts of gruff affection. Certainly he loved his wife with reverence and tenderness, but how far that love extended towards his stepchildren was unclear.

Across from Eadwyre: Helseth. Her brother by birth and younger by eight years. Her feelings toward him were complex and discomfiting – the closeness of their youth had recently dissipated as Helseth, young as he was, turned to life within the court. Politics. His mind was sharp and eager, she knew, but his temperament could be ugly. He was not cherished by the Wayrestian public.

At Helseth's right: little Elysana, her stepsister, daughter of Eadwyre and his first wife Carolyna. Unlike Helseth, she was the darling of the court – those cornflower-blue eyes, those flowing golden ringlets! So sweet of temper, so kind and thoughtful; who could not love her? Who indeed. It was only the occasional malicious gaze towards her stepsiblings that might spark a warning in anyone's mind.

Finally, by the side of her husband: Barenziah. Silently adored by her daughter. Stately, sharp, beautiful, graceful, dangerously quick of mind; her eyes held fathoms of wisdom and experience. Queen Barenziah had lived more than half an Era, and it was not lost on her.

As Morgiah seated herself opposite her brother, she had a sudden flash of unbidden insight: how different were they really, these seemingly irreconcilable creatures? What paths did their minds wander along; what lay behind the festival smiles and pleasantries?

What indeed.

**_The reverie of Eadwyre, King of Wayrest_**

_…and I fear these public appearances are of greater need of late the city seems to be waking up to the fact that an heir apparent must be announced in the coming years of course my darling Elysana so sweet and gentle I do love her dearly as did Carolyna but bless her she is so naïve and not that I doubt her but I am unsure of her competence intelligence never seemed to be her forte but to think of that dark and brooding Helseth taking the throne I never could quite feel fond of the boy especially in these recent years he can be so cold and I have no meeting of minds with him it is the same with the girl Morgiah although I am relatively fond of her there is still a point which I cannot pass she is courteous and friendly enough but I feel she is so alien we have no common ground not that I could ever tell Barenziah my beautiful proud wise queen how I love her so and Arkay rest dear Carolyna but I love Barenziah more than my own life her hand on mine on the tablecloth so full of grace my queen I never quite penetrated the depth of your thoughts but if only I understood your children as I almost do you…_

King Eadwyre looks out at the sea of his subjects in the Great Hall, then back to wife, and is lost in the flame of her eyes as he always is.

**_The reverie of Helseth, Prince of Wayrest_**

_…Dagon take it sitting up here like a puppet on show if only I could mingle with the crowd there are people I must meet the Baron Moorsley for instance I must start to integrate myself I did not realise it before but we are outsiders Mother Morgiah and I it will go the worse for me if I am not careful I must work hard to become popular and my stepfather is at last allowing me into council meetings to observe he thinks it is a whim but I must learn the mechanics of this province I know they do not take me seriously because I am young and it is true not long ago I would have scoffed at the idea of establishing myself within society at this early stage and I do not see Morgiah so much now I am so busy with stepfather and his doings I do miss her company I remember when we snuck into the treasury I was right there were piles of jewels she had to pay up all her jack-dice to me it is a shame I was caught but we have not done things like that for more than a year now I wonder I must try and introduce myself to people tonight especially the Baron but after perhaps I could catch her before she goes to bed and we could have a game of halma-board…_

Helseth looks up for a moment at his sister, and their eyes meet – for one second a fleeting sense of companionship passes between them, and the smallest of smiles is exchanged.

**_The reverie of Elysana, Princess of Wayrest_**

_…oh it's so tiresome I wish I could go back to my room I have not yet finished dressing Pollyanna in the new frock that came today perhaps I shall play with her before I go to bed but the nurse might not let me she might put the candle out straight away Papa will tell her and that will teach her to boss me oh Papa Papa it is so dull I have eaten all I want and why oh why must I sit next to horrid Helseth how I hate him with his stupid red eyes he is so ugly and her too I hate her with her stupid dark hair nothing like my pretty yellow ringlets I wish they had never come here Papa why did you bring the dark queen back my step-mother I wish she didn't live here she has never been unkind to me but I am a little afraid of her they say she has been alive for five-hundred years she must be a daedra oh Papa how could you bring her to live here with her horrid children one day when I grow up I will be Queen and I will send them back to their devil-land just you wait and see one day when I grow up and I am Queen…_

Princess Elysana swings her legs under the table, the seed-pearls on her little bodice reflecting the candlelight. She glares savagely at her stepbrother, before arranging her face into a charming smile and looking up at Eadwyre. He puts an affectionate arm around his gentle pretty daughter.

**_The reverie of Barenziah, Queen of Wayrest_**

_…I must remember to write to dear Llethan to confirm my visit to Mournhold Helseth has been quite adamant in my taking him he says he would like me to explain their system of government I don't quite know how to take this growing obsession with politics he is still so young my darling Helseth where did your carefree days with your sister disappear to but I don't like the glint of ambition I sometimes see in his eyes of course ambition is not a bad thing but he has such a rash temper if I can only channel this interest into something healthy though I am proud of his focus proud of both of them of course they always were so intelligent I have heard of Morgiah's studies so complex and advanced her thirst for learning gladdens me oh darling Morgiah had you only red hair I could be looking at myself in your face how I love them both but dear Azura what on earth is this glare that Elysana is giving Helseth she looks at him with such loathing I have seen it before Eadwyre of course will never notice I worry that this rift will grow unless Elysana will accept my children she is so young but ridiculous as it is I find myself nervous of her I fear this hatred of hers will grow and I can only think that trouble will come of it…_

Queen Barenziah watches her stepdaughter, then sighs and looks away. There is prophecy in her eyes.

* * *

Thirty years later in the present day of First Seed 3E 429, Aetherius is playing host to a particular group of people.

Unlike its opposite, Oblivion, the nature of Aetherius is malleable by mortals given the right knowledge and expertise. It has been done before to create the Mantellan Crux, the trap-ridden hiding place used to safeguard the Mantella, the heart of the broken Dwemer golem Numidium that Tiber Septim used to forge his empire. The Crux was traversed and the Mantella retrieved nineteen years ago by an agent of the Emperor, an event which resulted in Numidium's catastrophic reactivation.

Interestingly, Tamriel has not heard the last of Dwemer golems and Mantellas. It shall hear of them again, and soon.

But the mention of the Mantellan Crux is merely a reminder; a preface to the news that now, an area of a very similar nature has been created on the blank canvas of Aetherius. A habitable space within a metaphysical plane. It is a room the size of a mountain, with stars for walls. In the very centre of this room is a cluster of black-robed figures, and stationed before them: Vivec, the lost god!

Move closer; they are speaking.

Vivec's eyes are beautiful but unfocused. His movements are too slow.

"This enemy you speak of," he intones mildly. "You say I must help you create a talisman to defeat him."

"Yes, my lord," replies a black-robed figure. "Two talismans, in fact. One to power the force we will use to defeat our enemy, and one to direct it. We are in need of your mercy and your aid; your magical expertise is second only to your fellow, the almighty god Sotha Sil."

"Ah, Sotha Sil," the god moans, his eyes rolling back and his arms becoming rigid. "If only I had seen you – watch now, in your hallowed halls… your hallowed halls…"

The black-robed figures exchange looks.

Presently the god recovers, his taut limbs falling limp. He looks around slowly.

"What are these talismans I must make?"

"You shall have help, my Lord. Your skill in magicka will fulfil the enchantment; we have found for you a servant skilled in mechanics to complete the construction."

And now Vivec sees being led toward the group the soft massive silhouette of a man, but something about the outline is terribly wrong… below the waist, the reaching spindly arms eight times over, as of a spider made of metal…

Yagrum Bagarn, the last Dwemer, is propelled into the centre of the room. Vivec looks at him as if remembering something long ago, or trying to keep hold of a dream that is slipping away.

"I have seen the like of you before," he tells the hulking silhouette.

Yagrum Bagarn cannot answer. Where his tongue once was there is now only a cauterised stump of flesh, and with it has gone Bagarn's last chance of hope. He moves painfully, and his eyes are dim.

* * *

**A/N:** Ah, um, yes. This is where the first of the little liberties I've taken shows up.

I swapped Helseth and Morgiah's ages around, so that she's the older sister and he's the younger brother. It says in the _Daggerfall Chronicles_ and the timeline at the Imperial Library that Helseth is born in 3E 376, the year that the Staff of Chaos melodrama is happening, leading to the _Arena_ events. That would make him 53 in this fic, which is set in 3E 429, two years after _Morrowind_. The timeline dates Morgiah's birthday as 3E 384, which would make her 45.

I can't explain why I felt I had to swap their ages - even before I found the timelines, I always assumed Morgiah was the eldest. It just seemed to work better somehow, to fit in with the personalities I'd formed for them. To any purists who happen to be reading: Sorry...!

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, and the lovely shiny people at the forums who said nice things. Guarhunter, your intuition is absolutely correct. And to Night Mother about the title - I'm glad someone picked up on that. You're right, it could refer to either Helseth and the King of Worms, and I wanted to keep it deliberately ambiguous. You can decide for yourself who it refers to at the end of the fic!

One last note: the 'reveries' in this chapter are a direct pastiche of Mervyn's Peake's literary device in _Titus Groan _(one of my favourite novels of all time)_._ The content is unique to me, but the concept is not, so please do not credit me with it! :)

xxx


	6. The Red Lady Recruits A Septet

The King And I

Chapter Four – The Red Lady Recruits A Septet

* * *

"I need your help."

Nenya looked up at Morgiah's words, pleased by their frankness. "I've already promised my help, your Highness. On behalf of the Queen Mother, one of the people I admire most."

"And so she should be. But I don't doubt that your admiration is hard-earned and well-bestowed. I'm glad to have your assistance."

The two women had removed to Morgiah's study. Looking across the table, they found they liked one another.

Morgiah began to clear a small space between the piled documents on her desk, uncovering an inkpot and quill. She rifled through a drawer and found a sheaf of blank parchment, along with the Mournhold royal seal. "First and foremost, I need to assemble a group of trusted individuals to carry out this investigation. Off the top of my head, I imagine we shall need someone to track these black-robed visitors, someone to quietly dig up the old Llethan-Talen death-cases and analyse the possibility of their being murdered, someone to investigate Vivec's disappearance… and someone to keep their ear close to the ground Mournhold for rumours or clues wouldn't go amiss, either."

"I have several ideas," said the Nord, picking at a buckle on her pauldron and frowning thoughtfully. "I'm not sure if you'll approve of all of them, but the best comes with a price, I suppose."

Morgiah's quill was poised over the parchment, making barely-noticeable movements with her hand, turning the nib this way and that so as not to drip any ink. "Firstly," Nenya continued slowly, "I'd like you to ask a favour. It involves this investigation, so it's not to your disadvantage. If fact, it's probably much the opposite…"

"Ask," Morgiah said.

Nenya looked younger, more vulnerable for some reason; it was a strange contrast to her characteristic breeziness. "I'd like you to write to the Imperial City barracks and recall one of their soldiers to Vvardenfell," she said quickly, her words tumbling over themselves. "He'll be very helpful finding things out in Mournhold; he's good at getting information. But you'll need to write a request for his release."

Morgiah's curiosity was piqued, but she refrained from enquiring further. The release of one man from the Legion was a small price to pay for the Nerevarine's assistance. She dabbed the quill to blot off excess ink. "What is his name?"

Nenya smiled.

* * *

_(Caius is pensive)_

Caius Cosades had not always been a spy. Before that he had been a soldier, and a good one. He'd ranked sergeant before the Blades invitation came.

He'd always felt he suited the mould of a soldier more than a spy. His parents had evidently thought so, enrolling him into the nearest garrison as soon as age permitted. At first Caius had found underling military life hard, as all new recruits do, but once he began to rise through the ranks he realised that he liked this routine, straightforward way of life. He supposed the Mystics would tell him he was using his orderly, run-of-the-mill career to corrall his disorderly, chaotic mindset.

Legion life was uncomplicated. You either gave orders or you followed them. In a way, Caius had come back to seek solace, to not have to think. He was still a Blade, he was just… taking a break.

The Imperial City was always busy, but in the few hours after sunrise it was less so, and Caius was out for a walk. He was beginning to regret it, too, because the one thing walking breeds more than anything else is thought. Caius' mind was picking him up and running away with him again, and he _hated_ it when it did that.

He turned into a small, deserted courtyard and leant against a sun-soaked wall. The cool morning air was already becoming hot and sticky.

It's the Morrowind job, he told himself for the hundredth time. It all damn well comes back down to that.

He'd been a Blade for nine years when the summons came. From the Emperor himself, Uriel Septim VIII, no less – go to Vvardenfell, the island province of Morrowind. There's a house waiting for you there in a town called Balmora. Settle down and make yourself comfortable for a long stay; lie low til further instructions. Feign identity as a harmless skooma-eater.

Skooma-eater. He'd fought long and hard against that one. He had a weakness for sweet things, he'd told them; this was a bad idea, it'd only end in tears… but they were adamant. Moon Sugar addicts were left to their own devices, it was a failsafe disguise.

There was a certain amount of morbid satisfaction mixed with the pain and humiliation when they recalled him to Cyrodiil before his job was properly finished. He'd told them the skooma would be too much for him; they hadn't listened. On their head be it.

Still, it was him that had suffered as a result. They were ok – he'd got their Nerevarine job done for them, but him? Even the _smell_ of sugar broke him out in a sweat now. Some way to repay a loyal Imperial servant for years of toil.

But as he leant against the hot sandstone wall, hundreds of leagues from Balmora, he knew all the arguments about skooma were just a distraction. He knew his real feelings on leaving Vvardenfell. Despite the maddening drug taking over his life, he hadn't wanted to leave. He hadn't wanted to leave _her_, all alone without a clue what to do next. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right.

He might have been able to help her more if the assignment hadn't been so up in the air. He hardly knew a thing about the blasted Nerevarine prophecies – how was _she_ supposed to? The best he could do was to send her out scouting for information, and try to call in as many favours from old contacts as possible. He'd thought there'd been a mistake when she first arrived from the prison ship; twenty-four and about as magically able as a rock. A Nord, a _girl_, for Mercy's sake – was this the norm for reincarnated Dunmer heroes?

They'd spent a lot of time together as things went on. She'd often stayed in Balmora, kept him company… he had been surprised, at first, at the entirely capable mind working away beneath that cheerful blonde hammer-wielding exterior.

She'd written him letters after he'd been recalled. At first, their tone was of panic veiled over by cheerful flippancy – what did he think she should do about this, did he know any contacts for that, and how was the Imperial City? He'd written back faithfully, trying to ignore the furstration building up inside him. How could they burden her with this terrible responsibility? It made him angry, and angry at himself for feeling that way in the first place. He did not have the right to question the Emperor's orders.

After the Red Mountain crescendo was over, her letters were all smiles and laughs – they made him all smiles too, but the laughs he couldn't quite muster. The barracks had brought him back to earth, made his time in Vvardenfell seem like a long dream. It was only when the letters came that he was reminded that it was not…

There was a courier coming now.

"Caius Cosades?" he called, weaving through the pillars.

"Yes?" Caius said, startled out of his reverie. He pushed himself off the wall, chainmail jingling.

"Letter from Morrowind," said the courier, holding it out.

Caius reached for it eagerly, turned it over to break the seal, unrolled it clumsily-

_Her Royal Highness, Princess Morgiah of Mournhold, requests the release and subsequent audience…_

He read the whole thing, put the letter in his pocket, sighed, and rubbed his eyes.

So much for the quiet life.

* * *

"A Blade?" asked Morgiah. "I'd rather not have the Empire getting involved in all this…"

"He's not exactly what you'd call a fanatical loyalist," Nenya said with a hint of amusement. "And don't forget I'm a Blade too, albeit an honorary one."

"Very well; I shall write him a letter. In the meantime, I need someone to sniff around Mournhold and find out what's been going on with our black-robed visitors. Can you recommend anyone, or would you rather deal with this yourself?"

"Oh no," said Nenya with a disconcertingly bright smile. "I wouldn't dream of taking on something so delicate. You want Ser Gothren for that sort of thing."

* * *

_(Ser Solon Gothren cultivates his contacts)_

The Dren Plantation was a tightly-run operation. Not only was it the largest plantation on Vvardenfell (and therefore subject to theft, slave-loss and sabotage), it was also the headquarters of Orvas Dren, who was much more than House Hlaalu's richest councillor.

Ser Dren happened to be the headman of the Cammona Tong, the most vicious criminal syndicate in all Morrowind. Because of this, it was hard to get into the Dren mansion with ill intent towards him, and even harder to get out.

Unless you really, _really_ knew what you were doing. And there was one person who did.

A shadowy form stood in one corner of a second-floor room, training a lazy gaze over his surroundings. There were upwards of two thousand gold pieces stacked on the table, but he didn't trouble them with more than a glance. Thefts like that were noticed in minutes, and petty robbers didn't survive Dren's hitmen. Besides, there were larger things at stake here than money.

The person, a Dunmer man, had been a regular sight at the Dren mansion for the last month or so. No-one could quite work out what he was there for – certainly he was not a plantation-worker, nor did he look like a trader or a merchant, and he hadn't the demeanour of a guard. Those who had some idea of Dren's criminal connections left well alone – it was better to keep your distance from these things if you valued your limbs, not to mention your life.

In fact, the Dunmer man was not your usual brand of Cammona Tong thug. He had committed his fair share of crimes, certainly, but he was a little more refined – and certainly harder to pin down – than Dren's usual associates. Dren might have registered this as cause for concern had he not developed a decided liking for this particular mer... if _liking_ is the correct word.

The Dunmer man had used Dren's convenient favour to his advantage so far, but things were getting a bit... intense. He was feeling the need to cut and run, dangerous though it might be. Working for yourself was a very dicey game, even if you were good at it.

There was someone coming up the stairs. His hand moved to the hilt of the crossbow, within easy reach on the table, as the figure clumped to the top and made a beeline for his corner.

"Alright, Solon? Or is it still Galos Farethi?" asked Nenya.

"Galos, please," said Solon Gothren, removing his hand from the trigger. They shook hands with mutual respect. "I wonder," he went on, "how you managed to get inside so easily?"

"Blackmail," she said happily.

"Ah, yes," he murmured. "How could I have forgotten? I shan't ask for your thanks again, however."

"That's good," she smiled, "because I shan't give it when asked, anyhow."

He could see she was trying to be nonchalant as she looked at him. She was better at it than most, but it was still noticeable. It was very difficult not to stare at Solon.

"I've got a favour to ask, if you don't mind," she continued gaily.

"Another one? It's not wise to owe too many favours, Sera Nerevarine."

She frowned. "Don't call me that. I don't like it."

He smiled. "I know."

She had to work hard not to stare at his smile, which made her scowl even more in a good-natured sort of way. "Anyway," she said, settling herself in the nearest chair with a creak of armour, "_favour_ isn't exactly the right word. It's a job proposition, but I'd feel a lot better to know it was you doing it rather than someone else."

Solon looked around swiftly. Alternative job propositions were not a wise thing to advertise in their current surroundings. "This is not the ideal place to discuss, Sera. We'll go beyond the estate." He took her arm and led her towards the stairs, noting her awareness of his hand, but being too used to this sort of reaction for the thought to linger.

Upstairs, Orvas Dren heard nothing of the exchange, and was none the wiser. His thoughts were occupied by a certain Dumner man.

* * *

"That's two," said Nenya, ticking them off on her fingers. "But we're in luck; I know the perfect people to investigate your – er – _suspicion_ of the King's affinity with poisons. Normally it'd be near impossible to get hold of them considering how much they travel around, but I happen to know they've stopped off in Mournhold…"

Morgiah looked up. "Not the new court warlocks from Sadrith Mora?"

Nenya's mouth twitched. "Not quite."

* * *

_(Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd receive an unexpected offer of fund)_

"I'm hungry."

"Well, don't eat this or you'll turn into a newt."

The trestle table was littered with the most astonishing array of objects. A selection of alembics weighed down one end, while a heap of multicoloured fishscales in haphazard categories dominated the other. Next to a clay bowl full of enough pearls to turn a lady green stood a young Breton woman, bent over a sample-phial of colourless liquid, a frown of concentration on her pretty face. At the other end of the table, jostling for occupation with the alembics, sat a fair-haired young man with a sheaf of parchment spread before him.

"A newt?" he said plaintively, looking at the phial with apprehension. "I thought you'd given up on Alteration."

She answered the goad with a mock-glare, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before resuming her scrutiny. "Eadwyrd, what's best to fuse with marshmerrow? Do you think pearl?"

Eadwyrd wrinkled his nose rather endearingly. "Something a bit less formed than pearl. Mother-of-pearl, maybe? Or Kollop shell? Have we got those?"

The young woman sighed, abandoning the phial and slumping in a chair next to her companion. "No," she grumbled, picking a bit of leaf from under her fingernail. "We'll need another trip to the alchemist's. _Snowy_, I think would be better than _snow'en_, there," she added, indicating a line on the parchment.

Eadwyrd looked at her sternly. "It's supposed to be formal language, Gwynabyth. '-en' is from the old Aldmeri formation of adjectives."

She smiled at him. "You and your Aldmeri formations. Perhaps you could help with some actual apothecary next time, instead of shouting impossible instructions from across the room whilst composing poetry?"

"I was advising!" he protested. "Next time I'll help properly. I just had to get this verse down before it left me."

"Promise you'll read it to me when it's finished?"

He smiled helplessly at her. "Promise."

She was quiet for a moment. Then- "Maybe you could send some manuscripts to the Mournhold Players."

He looked up, startled, then plucked at his quill uncomfortably. "I don't know… besides, I'm not sure they'd even accept them. And I don't like to feel I'm doing it just to get money…"

"Oh Eadwyrd, I know. I shouldn't really have asked. It's just – well, we haven't even halfway finished the formula, and we can't keep spending money on ingredients with no source of income." She toyed with a lock of hair.

"Well, we've nearly-" began Eadwyrd, but was cut off by a knock at the door. "Who could that be?"

"The landlady, probably," replied Gwynabyth with a guilty look, hastily pulling a makeshift cover over the mess of ingredients in one corner. "Oh no, the place is a tip…"

"I'll go," offered Eadwyrd, trying to put his manuscripts in some semblance of order before hurrying to the door.

Gwynabyth heard a murmur of voices, an exclamation of surprise, a door closing – and then Eadwyrd was back with, inexplicably, an envelope bearing the Royal seal of Mournhold.

"I think," he said with wide shocked eyes, "that our financial problems may be considerably postponed."

* * *

"And you said they were from…?"

"Glenumbra Moors, a western province of High Rock," Nenya told her. "Iliac Bay region."

"Interesting..."

Nenya didn't usually beat around the bush. "Been there, your Highness?"

"Yes."

There was something so extremely strange in her eyes that for a moment even the facetious Nenya was disconcerted.

The silence stretched out. "So," Nenya ventured at last, "they'll do?"

Morgiah came back to earth. "Hm – yes, they're perfect. Is that the end of the list?"

"One more," said Nenya, kicking off her muddy boots, which Morgiah decided to overlook. "This one's tricky, very tricky – but I think if we can snag him, he'll prove more valuable than anyone could imagine…"

* * *

_(Uncle Crassius, as seen through the eyes of a secretary)_

The gilt sign on the door read 'Crassius Curio, Director of Business'. Quite what business this referred to Forvus was not sure. That Bosmeri courier had been inside for a good while – longer than it took to simply hand over a letter.

Forvus Graccus had been Crassius Curio's personal secretary for almost a month. He had come to the city of Vivec with rumours ringing in his ears of the greatness of House Hlaalu's premier councillor, and the mixture of nervous excitement and certainty of employment that only the young and inexperienced possess.

When he got to Vivec there were new rumours. "Have you _seen_ his new play?" he overheard a Breton woman giggle to her friend in the tavern one evening. "Oh, to be Lifts-Her-Tail!"

He became more and more nervous as the days passed by. Why should Ser Curio bother to employ _him_ when there were so obviously dozens of starstruck women who would jump at the chance?

He needn't have worried. When he was finally granted an audience and stood before his hero, breathless with anxiety, Ser Curio merely winked, said he could do with someone new to "shuffle his paperweights", asked to be called 'Uncle Crassius' and told Forvus he'd look better in closer-fitting trousers.

Thus his employment commenced.

"Urgent letter from Mournhold," announced a courier that Forvus hadn't even realised was there. "May I go straight through?"

"Ah, no," stuttered Forvus hastily, glancing at the shut door. "Leave it with me, Sera, and I shall convey it to Ser Curio as soon as possible." He held out his hand to take the letter.

"Is he not here?" pressed the courier, making no attempt to hand it over. "It would really be better if I could give it directly to him; it's quite important."

"I'm afraid he is, ah… indisposed," Forvus stammered on valiantly, beginning to feel a bit desperate. He was sure he could almost hear the squeaking of springs.

Unfortunately, before the courier could reply, an extremely long-drawn-out masculine groan thundered from behind the door. Forvus froze, hand still outstretched for the letter.

"Good grief", said the courier after a moment's staring. "What on earth… Is he ill?"

"Oh yes, terribly, terribly," gabbled Forvus, pouncing on the excuse like a rat on a biscuit. "Doctor's with him now. Bosmer doctor – ah, very proficient – And of course you shouldn't be lingering around here," he continued, ushering her away and prising the letter from her fingers. "Could be contagious. Can't say. Thank you – thank you –"

The courier disappeared with one last suspicious glance. By the time Forvus had gotten back downstairs, a dishevelled-looking wood-elf was emerging sheepishly from the office door.

Crassius Curio himself followed, and unlike his companion was immaculately groomed. "Keep those letters coming, dear," he smirked. She giggled, but caught sight of the staring Forvus and fled.

"So, my little scribe," Crassius addressed Forvus airily, utterly unabashed by his obvious methods of diversion. "What have you for me today?"

"Just one letter, sir," Forvus said, locating and holding it out. "The courier said it was urgent, but it came when you were, ah…"

Crassius raised an eyebrow.

"…busy, sir," Forvus finished lamely.

"Excellent job as always, pudding," said Crassius, his smirk now wide enough to fit a door through. "And don't bother with the 'sir'. You and I are past such formalities."

Already tomato-red, Forvus held out the envelope. Crassius gave him a roguish wink, clearly intended to make the situation worse – but once the letter was opened, all trace of facetiousness was gone in an instant. His eyes scanned the document meticulously, once, twice, three times.

Forvus waited, thankful for an opportunity for the cursed blush to fade.

"Interesting," said the older man finally. "Very interesting."

"…Sir?" Forvus ventured, forgetting his employer's request.

"I shall be going away for a short spell, Forvus," Crassius announced, folding the letter up neatly. "I shall need transport to, and accommodation in Mournhold for three days. Can I trust you to make the arrangements?"

"Oh yes sir, of course sir!" gasped Forvus, thrilled to be entrusted with something so important. "I'll get on top of it immediately."

"I'm sure you will, sweetling," demured Crassius, giving his secretary a wicked glance before retreating to his office.

Forvus sighed. So much for getting rid of the blush.

* * *

"A Hlaalu councillor," Morgiah stated as she wrote. She dripped the last of the sealing wax onto the envelope and pressed her ring to the parchment. "What a cunning angle to take. Perhaps you should have been a politician, not a warrior."

"Too much lying. Shall I take those letters myself, your Highness? I'll drop the international ones off with your courier on the way out."

"Thank you; that would be most kind."

Nenya stood, lightly picking up her massive helmet and perching it atop her head as if it were merely a pillbox hat. "Righto. Back to old Vvardenfell. One week from today, I'll be back with all the responses I can get." She tucked the bundle of letters into her pack, slid her ebony visor down and clumped out of the room.

When she had gone, Morgiah took a fresh sheet of parchment from the rack, dipped her quill in the inkwell and scripted an envelope with the name of one Bomba 'Lurrina, and an address in the city of Daggerfall. The key personality of Iliac Bay's fate in 3E 410 would be summoned by her Highness one more time.

* * *

**A/N:** Well, I said I was going to try and include as many in-game characters as possible, so here's the first lot. Caius is self-explanatory - who could ever leave him out? And as for Crassius, the first time I saw him ask one of my earlier characters (a big grimy orc) to take all his clothes off, I laughed so much I spat tea all over my keyboard and had to spend two hours cleaning it. So he's in just for that.

Solon is a very fun character. He sort of evolved when I downloaded the Astarsis Basic Replace mod onto my computer (highly recommend it, by the way) and there was one dark elf face that caught my eye and kept on popping up on certain people in the game. Like I wrote in the chapter, Galos Farethi, the half-naked guy with the daedric shield who wanders around the Dren manor, was one. The others were a guy in the Common Tongue hideout, a bodyguard at the Hlaalu Grandmaster estate and Crazy-Legs Arantamo, who works for Gentleman Jim Stacey the thief in Vivec. I started forming this mad theory that they were all the same person, some criminal guy with loads of aliases, and thus Solon was born!

Gwyn and Ead are less likely to be known - I remember them from a little alchemist's shop somewhere in Glenumbra in TESII,_ Daggerfall_. I couldn't quite remember the woman's name, but I found this picture at the Imperial Library - not only was it the same face, but the name was almost identical. The picture's in my photobucket account under 'rumple_teasza' if anyone wants to see it.

Love to the Elder Scrolls site forum posters, because they are pretty and shiny, especially **Elhazan** who says lovely things.

And, er, I'll shut up now befor the author's note is longer than the chapter.

xxx


	7. Interlude 2 How The King Came Into Play

The King And I

Chapter Five – Interlude Two; How The King Came Into Play

* * *

_Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Last Seed 3E 399. It is 32 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23. _

* * *

There was a restlessness in Wayrest; it had been building up to a peak since Fiery Night. Morgiah could feel it.

There was something wrong with the Emperor. Everyone knew it, though it was seldom spoken of openly. Rumours were wispered of his out-of-character behaviour, his unusual orders and decrees. It was as if another Emperor had taken over and was living under his skin. Morgiah remembered the brief time she had seen him in person, with Helseth and her mother… it had been just before the news of their father's death, and their move to Wayrest.

And she remembered how quiet her mother had been after that, as if carrying some terrible burden. The presence of Eadwyre lifted it, but only slightly. It was obvious that Barenziah knew more about the Emperor's condition than she was letting on.

And now more rumours, rumours all over Tamriel of something (or some_one_?) turning the tide against this strangeness, battling an internal evil in the Imperial court, unearthing a string of long-lost artefacts… Morgiah had heard tell that the Oghma Infinium had been found.

As soon as this had come to her attention, she had gone to the library to look up the lore of legendary artefacts. Her search had yielded some cursory information on the twenty or so of which were considered the most powerful and important – and there, right in front of her, was a description of the Oghma Infinium. The knowledge-giver. A _'tome written by the Ageless One, the wizard-sage Xarses - All who read the Infinium are filled with the energy of the artefact, receiving wisdom of near demi-god proportions… if he can brave the might of the Daedra Prince Hermaeus Mora, the giver of the Tome.'_

Morgiah usually tried to stay away from gods and goddesses, demi or not. She didn't want to be a demi-god. She just wanted the knowledge.

The Oghma Infinium…

She knew it would never amount to anything. They were just daydreams. Silly, grandiose fantasies. But it was hard to stop thinking of it; so hard, in fact, that during her next tutor session in the library she was uncharacteristically uninterested in her studies. She was looking lazily across the quiet room, at the patterns on her tutor's cloak.

"That's a pretty brooch, Karethys," she said vaguely. "An unusual rune. What does it mean?"

Her tutor seemed to hesitate. "It's… a symbol. Of devotion."

Her hesitation piqued Morgiah's curiosity. "To what?"

Karethys turned a perfectly level gaze on her. "A leader," she said unhelpfully, easing a book from the shelf. "Your last hour is finished," she continued. "You may spend the afternoon as you wish. Would you like to stay in the library? I shall leave the windows open for you."

"Thank you, Karethys. I think I might."

Her tutor retired and shut the door quietly. Morgiah got up and browsed leisurely along the shelves. She felt like something different today. History, maybe, or something more frivolous – she was in a fanciful mood, and the library, the view from the windows, even the weak daylight glow of the oil-lamps seemed adventurous.

She returned to the table with a pile of books from dusty and forgotten corners, picked up the oldest and most dog-eared of all, and began to read.

Creation myths… old monarchs… the continents over the sea… the shaping of the lands… the migration of the elves… old heroes, old tyrants, old figureheads, and the symbols of their power and domination…

She blinked suddenly, staring at the familiar shape that had appeared on the page before her. She had seen it only moments before. The rune on Karethys' cloak-clasp.

"…_a symbol. Of devotion."_

Years later she would think back on this extraordinary coincidence, wondering if she had been rash in her habitual condemnation of fate as a myth... but for now, it was simple curiosity that guided her actions.

She pulled the book closer, excitement rising. The commentary on the symbol described it as a rune of questionable meaning and origin, incorporating aspects from Altmeri and some form of ancient Breton. _At one tyme thys symbol maye have been promynent,_ it read, _and although now yt ys more obscure, yt ys no less commone. At one tyme certaynly yt was recognysed as the syne of allegyence to that Sorceror, that Worm Kyng, who trycked the secrets from the pawes of the gods to learne hys craft._

Morgiah sat back. Something strange had happened – she suddenly felt as if she were looking into an abyss. As if some vast space and distance were laid out before her. Worm King. Worm King?

"…_a leader."_

It was if she had put one foot on a bridge that would lead beyond her whole life.

She cross-referenced 'Worm King' in the library index and began to search the shelves.

* * *

_Palace North Wing, Mournhold, Morrowind, 9__th__ First Seed 3E 429, Present Day._

* * *

Helseth looked at his interviewee. The man was wearing a black robe which all but obscured his face.

"You understand, then, the implications of this project?" Helseth asked him.

"I am aware that its successful completion will drive the n'wah from the land", replied his companion. "That is enough for the Sixth House Dreamers left behind at Dagoth Ur's demise. You have given us a focus; a means to achieve our end. I do not fully understand what _your_ ends may be, but I stand by you nonetheless."

"Then as a devoted subject you deserve that understanding," Helseth confirmed, familiar with the etiquette of such situations. "Are you familiar with the history of Tiber Septim's uprising, and of his use of the Dwemer golem Numidium?"

"I know a little of the lore," replied the man, his mouth just visible under the hood of the cloak. The lips were very red. "Septim used the heart of his battlemage, Zurin Arctus, to create the heart of the golem Numidium. Using this monstrous weapon, he forcibly pulled the provinces together to create his empire. I hear the same golem was also involved in the so-called 'Warp of the West' nineteen years ago in the Iliac Bay, but I am not privy to how or why."

"You are correct, although you could not know the full extent of Numidium's influence, despite the fact that it is now irreparably broken and scattered throughout Oblivion." Helseth sat back and laced his fingers together. "First, its construction. The Dwemer obviously took care of the mechanical side; however, two artefacts were needed in addition. The Totem was a device that the Emperor held, in order to guide and control the golem. The Mantella, as you said, was the device placed inside Numidium – its heart, if you will – without which the golem would be a useless puppet. Through my extensive studies I have concluded that this heart, this Mantella, is a kind of enormously powerful soul-gem. Numidium's Mantella was powered by the soul of Zurin Arctus, and was the source of the golem's vast potential."

"You explain well," said the Abandoned Dreamer. "I believe... I believe I may understand your purpose better now."

For a moment there was silence. The Dreamer drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.

"How did you come to learn of the existence of a second golem?"

"How sharp you are. To answer that... The Nerevarine may have kept the specifics of her foray into Red Mountain to herself, but I have various sources of information," Helseth said with a twist of his lips. "Since the excommunication of the Dissident Priests was repealed, their de-hereticised records have made for interesting reading. The Heart of Lorkhan is dead beyond doubt, but the thing that housed it still stands."

Another silence as this information was processed. "And Vivec and Bagarn?"

"Essential," Helseth confirmed. "Now Sotha Sil has unfortunately met his end, Vivec is the only individual within our grasp with the magical expertise needed to create the two necessary artefacts. Bagarn is obvious. No mer could outstrip a Dwemer when it comes to mechanics."

"And when Vivec has served his purpose, you will use his soul to power the new Heart?"

For the first time, Helsth seemed uncertain. "No," he said slowly. "That is… a problem. Vivec is mad, and highly unstable. An unstable Heart means an unstable Housing, and that could be the death of us all."

"Then who?"

"There are several options which come to mind," Helseth said thoughtfully. "The obvious, and most impossible, is the Emperor himself. But though the unrest in the Imperial City has not escaped my attention, even I am not so brave, not to mention so foolish, as to attempt such a feat myself. Besides, he and his soul are old and weak."

"I next considered Nulfaga," he continued, "who is now – with my greatest gratitude – under your full control. But of course Nulfaga presents the same difficulties as Vivec: though immensely powerful, her mind is grossly unstable. I would not use her unless all other options were exhausted."

"It seems you are running out of candidates," remarked the black-robed figure. "We could perhaps have soultrapped Divath Fyr, had you warned us."

"I did think of that," admitted the King, "but we had then no means to trap a soul as powerful as Fyr's. We would have needed a mechanically completed Heart, and so it would have been necessary to keep him alive and in captivity until it was made. That would have been impossible. Silence, stealth and utmostly _surprise_ were our only weapons against him. Even then I believe it was a closer shave than you would like to admit."

The Dreamer said nothing.

"But there is one other," murmured Helseth, narrowing his eyes in thought. "When I resided in High Rock in the province of Wayrest, there was a local rumour of an age old being – a sorcerer – now known chiefly as the Leader of the Necromancers. Have you heard of what I speak?"

"Once or twice," said the Dreamer slowly, "though I believed it only legend."

"It _is_ a legend, but it happens to be a true one. I have the fortune to know someone whom I suspect may have had dealings with this leader at some point –"

"Who?" interrupted the Dreamer, forgetting himself.

"– whom if my suspicions are correct," Helseth continued, ignoring him, "we may use to lead us to this being. It's a long shot, but difficult though it may be, I think it could be the best option."

"And who is the person we might utilise to bring us closer to this Leader, your Majesty?" asked the Dreamer, deferential in the face of his lapsed humility.

Helseth did not reply. His eyes had grown dark.

* * *

_Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Last Seed 3E399. Back in the Library, 32 years before the present day._

* * *

Three hours later, Morgiah was entranced.

Necromancers. That was it. This Worm King was the figurehead of the Necromancers, and had been for as long as memory told. Where had he come from? No-one knew. No record stated his birth and parentage – had he even been born at all? The oldest dates in which she had found references were thousands of years of age. This was beyond Dunmer, even Altmer life span. But he was certainly not a Daedra…

'Tricked the secrets from the paws of the gods'_. _What did it _mean?_

First and foremost, of course, was that the untranslatable rune was undoubtedly the badge of a Necromancer. Morgiah sat back, and let out a breath she'd been unaware of holding.

_So, Karethys,_ she thought. _I wonder what other secrets you're keeping?_

* * *

**A/N:** It bears mentioning that Karethys, like many characters in this story, actually exists in the game itself. She is a Dunmer (one of the only ones you ever see in Daggerfall apart from Morgiah, Barenziah and Helseth) who you can find in the back-hall of Castle Wayrest. Since Dunmer are so scarce in Daggerfall, I thought it was only logical to assume that Karethys was there to give Barenziah's children a connection to their heritage, culture and previous home.


	8. First Orders

The King And I

Chapter Six – First Orders

* * *

Seven chairs had been found and squeezed into Morgiah's study. As of yet, four were occupied.

In the first two: a young Breton couple, looking distinctly shy and intimidated. Plain leather satchels hung from their sides.

In the next: Crassius Curio, an arm draped languidly over the back of the chair beside him, where Nenya was idly readjusting a buckle on one of her boots.

The occupant of the fifth chair was not in fact in it; she was standing close to the fire, her golden eyes staring hard into the flames. This was not the Suthay-Raht species of Khajiit seen so commonly in Morrowind, but the Ohmes-Raht found more widely in the west. She had come a long way.

Morgiah sat forward. "Thank you all for coming," she said. "I would like to establish from the start that in coming here, you have agreed to adhere to the strictest discretion. Bar one, you were all recommended to me by the Nerevarine; I hope her trust in you has not been misplaced."

"I can assure you our mouths are sealed, your Highness," said Curio smoothly. "Although I believe our company is still two short…?"

"They should be here by now," Nenya frowned. "I hope nothing's-"

She broke off as Morgiah suddenly stood up, something odd flashing behind her eyes.

"Come in," she said.

The company looked at the silent door, nonplussed. Sure enough, it was opened cautiously and two men stepped inside.

The first lifted off his Legion helmet respectfully to reveal a tired but honest Cyrodiilic face, with hair cropped short in the military style. "Apologies, your Highness," he said deferentially. "There were delays at the gate-check."

Before Morgiah could answer, a blonde blur of domina and indoril careered past and threw itself into the arms of one very surprised Imperial Spymaster.

"Caius!"

It is far from easy to withstand the onslaught of a fully armoured Nord in the prime of her life; nonetheless, Caius managed to keep his ground with little more than a stumble. Although he looked slightly embarrassed by the scene, Morgiah did not fail to notice that he chose not to untangle himself from her embrace.

Partially extricating herself from the confusion of limbs, Nenya looked at him with cheeks flushed from pleasure. "Hello, you old addict. Did they manage to keep you away from it, then?"

"Cheeky little-" Caius expostulated, pushing her off him and smacking her hard around the head with his gauntlet. Nenya barely blinked, the blow glancing off without a scratch.

"Skulls as thick as rocks, Nords," Caius grumbled. Nenya accepted the insult peaceably, her smile spreading to an infuriatingly cocky grin.

She turned to Morgiah, still smirking. "Your Highness, may I present Sergeant Caius Cosades?" Caius approached Morgiah and knelt awkwardly to kiss her hand, his chainmail clinking.

Nenya indicated the second man, a Dunmer, with whom she had just finished enthusiastically shaking hands. "May I also present Ser Solon Gothren," she said.

Years of protocol and etiquette were the only thing that kept Morgiah expressionless. Her stomach felt as if the bottom had dropped out of it.

Ser Solon Gothren was shockingly beautiful. It almost made her dizzy. His beauty was curiously androgynous; the high cheekbones, the smooth skin, the sultry and intense eyes. His dark, artfully tousled hair showed the faintest hint of red where the candlelight touched it.

She distrusted him at once. It is always wise to be wary of people who have a power over others, however it may manifest itself. It was also clear that she was not the only one affected; every eye in the room was turned in his direction.

"Welcome," she heard herself say as he crossed the room, knelt, and kissed her hand.

"Thank you, your Highness" he replied, his voice low and soft. He took the chair next to the young Breton woman, who turned bright pink. There was an akward few moments as the silence in the room stretched to absurdity, before Morgiah gave herself a mental slap and took charge of the situation.

"As I was saying, thank you all for coming," she declared, regaining her poise with an internal stab irritation at her lapse. "For the benefit of those who do not know each other, I shall make the introductions."

"Ser Gothren and Sergeant Cosades we have just met. This lady and gentleman," she indicated the Breton couple, "are Miss Gwynabyth Yeomham and Mr Eadwyrd Greenhart, alchemists from Glenumbra in High Rock. Beside them is Ser Curio, Hlaalu Councillor; Nenya, the Nerevarine; and by the fire is Bomba 'Lurrina, an acquaintance of mine from some time ago in Wayrest. Welcome."

Various figures throughout the room nodded to each other.

"I have called you here to ask for your help. Recently the Queen Mother and I have become… concerned… about certain residents of the palace, and their involvement in recent disturbing events. I am launching a personal investigation into the matter, and each of you has unique talents I hope will prove invaluable to the operation."

Between her fingers wound a silver chain, from which hung a pale green gem.

"I have compiled a list of preliminary orders for each of you." She shuffled some paper on the desk. "Miss Yeomham, Mr Greenhart. I have here the coroner's report of the deaths of King Llethan and his nephew, Talen Vandas, two years ago this month. I would like you to study them for symptoms of poisoning, and give me your thoughts on the matter."

The Breton couple nodded, curiosity clear on their faces.

"Nenya and Bomba 'Lurrina, I would like you to investigate the recent conjecture concerning our holy Tribunal. Nenya will provide you with the details, Miss 'Lurrina. I should start by visiting the Vivec Temple if I were you."

Nenya gave the Khajiit a look which distinctly meant that information would be exchanged later in private. Religion was always such a touchy subject, no matter what company you were in.

"Ser Gothren. I am asking you to inquire into my brother's links with both the Dark Brotherhood and the Cammona Tong. I am not sure where to advise you to start, but I do not think you will need guidance from me in any case."

Solon turned his gaze on her, but she was ready this time, and remained perfectly composed. He nodded once.

"Finally, Ser Curio and Sergeant Cosades. Your task is less clear-cut. I am aware both of you have many contacts across the province, from the aristocracy to the underworld. I understand the irregularity of this request, but I would like you to put together a report of every peculiar or inexplicable unresolved event that may have taken place in the last few months. There is a link somewhere, and I am going to find it, no matter how many red herrings we have to wade through."

She realised that Caius and Crassius were surveying each other with obvious dislike. Nenya was glancing between the two, biting her lip crossly. Morgiah momentarily considered asking if there was some kind of disagreement between the two – she wasn't prepared for her investigation to suffer as the result of a petty squabble – but decided against it. They were professional men, and this job was more important than any personal dispute they might share.

"Thank you all again," she repeated, sitting down and arranging her papers. "And now; do not let me detain you."

And so the meeting was over.

* * *

"Those guards are looking this way," Eadwyrd hissed nervously. "I don't really think we should be here…!"

Gwynabyth muttered under her breath, moving warily out of sight. "Are they still watching?"

Eadwyrd sighed. "No. Look, we did the report, we know it was poison. If you ask me, it was already a foregone concludsion; we were just brought in to confirm it. This whole thing is giving me the creeps. We don't have to be here. What do you expect to find?"

"I don't _know_, Eadwyrd," Gwynabyth said testily, examining the small trade entrance to the palace North Wing. "I just think if she's paying us this much, we ought to earn it. It took about three minutes to identify those bittergreen symptoms; I just think we should offer something else. The Princess said strange robed figures have been getting into the palace this way, and I want to look for clues."

"I hope she appreciates your dedication," Eadwyrd muttered. Then his forehead wrinkled in a frown as his eye caught a white glint off the path. "What's that?"

He stooped down, Gwynabyth beside him, easing the object out from behind the raised flowerbed.

"A square bit of linen," Gwynabyth said curiously, taking it from him and turning it over. A piece of leaf was stuck to one side – she brought it to her nose cautiously.

"Don't!" Eadwyrd said suddenly, knocking her hand away. Her eyes widened as she recognised the shape and colour of the leaf.

"Bittergreen… raw bittergreen!"

"Well, at least you're getting somewhere with your detecting," Eadwyrd said darkly. "It's all adding up rather fast, isn't it?

"Maybe you're right, Eadwyrd," Gwynabyth said softly, staring at the linen. "Maybe this _is_ too big for us."

"I'll say. We came here to work on the tonic, not get tangled up in royal politics and murder cases."

"But we've already spent everything we have on ingredients!" Gwynabyth protested. "We need this salary to get back home on… and to finish the tonic. We've made such good progress. If it works out we could be court alchemists in Glenumbra!"

"I know." Eadwyrd sighed. "I just have… a nasty feeling about this. We're contractually bound now, and we don't know what she'll ask us to do next. She isn't even _our_ princess, for Mara's sake! We're Bretons, we've got nothing to do with the Dunmer."

Gwynabyth hesitated. "She was Princess of Wayrest too, though… apparently she left almost thirty years ago, but I heard she only arrived at Mournhold in the last couple of months. I don't know where she was in between."

"Let's start walking back," Eadwyrd muttered, taking her arm and steering her away. "We don't want to look suspicious. And as for the Princess, I heard she married a High Elf king, but he died. What does it matter? We don't belong to Morrowind, Summurset Isle or even Wayrest. It just… bothers me." He bit his lip and they rounded a corner, the gates to Godreach coming into view. "The sooner we finish our work here the better. I miss Glenumbra," he admitted. "I miss your cottage and the kitchen-garden."

At the mention of home, Gwynabyth's whole face lit up; she turned and smiled warmly at him. "We'll be back before you know it," she promised softly.

It was a little too long before Eadwyrd broke the gaze, looking down at the flagstones, his cheeks pink. Gwynabyth, oblivious, began to sing Broken Diamonds under her breath.

The colour in Eadwyrd's cheeks didn't fade until they reached their lodgings, nor could he resist the occasional sneaked glance at his companion. But Gwynabyth didn't notice. She never did.

* * *

It was well that Nenya had retained her key, because there was no question of gaining an invitation to Vivec's Palace from the Archcanon now. So it was in the early hours of the morning that she and Bomba 'Lurrina swam through the canals to the southern base of the canton, making their way level by level towards the top tier.

Despite being one of the least feline forms of Khajiit and some years past her prime, Bomba 'Lurrina was naturally adept at stealth and secrecy, and her silhouette glided smoothly up the walkways that surrounded the palace. The same could not be said of Nenya, who moved with the kind of mow-down efficiency of a sphere centurion. Bomba 'Lurrina winced at the clumping of heavy boots on the tier below her; the reconciliation of 'Nenya' and 'Nerevarine' was so baffling that most people preferred not to think about it.

Finally reaching the pinnacle of the structure, the two women edged round to the elaborate front doors, Nenya rustling with painful loudness in her pockets for the key. Bomba 'Lurrina was fixed in a kind of mortified awe. There were guards at the bridge to the temple; it was impossible that they couldn't hear! But there they were, standing with their backs turned, completely oblivious to the ruckus going on behind them. It had to be Nenya. These things just seemed to _work_ for her. Anyone else would have been shot full of holes before they'd gotten halfway up the side.

The key was located and the door opened. They slipped inside, Nenya pulling off her helmet. Bomba 'Lurrina had insisted that wearing armour to swim the gap to the palace canton was beyond stupid, but her protests had bounced off like an arrow on a kagouti. And the infuriating thing was, the armour hadn't made a difference anyway. Laws of physics just seemed to _bend_ around Nenya.

The Khajiit sighed and turned her attention to the dais of Vivec.

Immediately her eyes narrowed, her posture stiffening. She gave a barely audible sniff, head turning this way and that.

"It looks just like before, except there are a few more spiderwebs," Nenya commented. "I'm not entirely sure what her Highness expected us to find here. Are you alright?" she said, suddenly noticing her companion's tense posture.

"Husssh," Bomba 'Lurrina growled, lowering herself into a crouch. "Don't move. Don't move a muscle until I say."

Nenya froze with a grace quite unexpected of one who'd made enough noise to wake the dead during the ascent up the palace exterior.

Bomba 'Lurrina crawled silently up to the dais, cold and dark without its torches. She circled the rim, head moving this way and that. Nenya could see her nose twitching sensitively. After a few minutes she stood up and nodded to herself, as if confirming an unspoken thought.

Nenya unfroze. "You've found something."

"Yes. Something strange, which changes matters entirely. A window into Aetherius has been opened in this room."

Nenya looked nonplussed. "Really? How can you tell?"

Bomba 'Lurrina levelled a steady gaze at her. "Once you have looked on Aetherius, you do not forget it, nor the marks it leaves on the mortal plane."

Nothing seemed to surprise Nenya. "Oh, I see. You've been there?"

"I- yes," replied the Khajiit, a little frustrated at the lack of awestruck admiration this information seemed to be causing. "It is the opposite plane to Oblivion, and the universal source of magicka. Are you familiar with the phenomenon known as the 'Warp in the West'?"

"Ah. You were involved in that, were you?"

Bomba 'Lurrina gave up trying to be impressive. "Yes," she said with less pomp. "It was during that time that I met the Princess, in fact."

"Well I never. So you think Vivec left through Aetherius, instead of going out the front door?"

Bomba 'Lurrina wrinkled her nose. "It seems likely," she confirmed. "But did he leave… or was he taken?"

Nenya looked thoughtful.

"It's possible that Vivec created the window himself," Bomba 'Lurrina continued. "But if not, I know of only one person with enough control over Aetherius to do such a thing…" she stared at the dark dais. "I don't think the god's disappearance was the beginning of this," she said finally. "I think it's the latest in a chain of events longer than we realise. The mention of Aetherius makes me think of a particular name… and if _she's_ involved, this has happened for a well-planned reason."

"'She'?"

"The one who sent me into Aetherius nineteen years ago."

Nenya pondered. Then- "Interesting," she said. "Maybe we should get this information to her Highness. Seems like it's quite important."

"Yes," said Bomba 'Lurrina. "It is."

They left the way they had come, and the guards didn't hear a thing, despite the faint echo of "Oh bugger" as Nenya dropped her helmet in the water on the way down.

* * *

The Dark Brotherhood Operative held his lookout position by the Old City entrance with fierce adherence. He was newly promoted, pale and trembling with zealotry.

His sharp eyes scanned the vast cavern of abandoned Old Mournhold, built over and forced underground long ago by new generations of buildings. His long fingers, disconcertingly quick and fluttering, travelled constantly inside his sleeves to check the knives concealed in his cuffs. His mind didn't even register the action; it was automatic, almost a nervous twitch.

Manos Othrelath, the current Speaker, was at the moment residing in the partially-ruined house behind his guard-post. He had been in power for almost two years, rising to his station after the suspicious death of the previous Speaker. The Operative was not entirely sure what the cause had been, but he'd heard rumours of a contract made by King Helseth himself going horribly wrong... some had whispered the word _Nerevarine,_ but they quickly desisted when those responsible for the rumours started disappearing. Since then, security near the main Sanctuary had been stepped up. They'd moved to a new location a mile or so away; part of the Manor District, though the ground was less stable here and riven with seams and fissures. They had also doubled their watch. Though he could not see them, the Operative knew at least three guards would be posted round the corners of the multiple tunnels leading away from the meeting-house.

He decided the check them out of conscientiousness. He did this every so often, similar to those fluttering hands that felt by unconscious habit for his concealed weapons. Moving a few steps away from his post, he peered round the corner of the nearest tunnel.

There was no-one there.

He took a couple more steps, assuming the guard was a little further round the bend. Still nothing.

Frowning, he debated what to do. He was required to stay at his post religiously, and he was loath to disobey orders. But if another guard was absent…

He decided to inform a superior. Turning, he had almost made it back to his watchpoint when a soft click sounded to his right, and an excruciating pain ripped through his throat. He tried to shout, but through the haze of horrified agony he realised there was something protruding from his neck that should not be there, and he was voiceless. The front of his armour was suddenly warm and sticky and wet.

Silently, the Operative sank to the floor. His world went dark.

A man stepped out from round the corner, approaching the body silently. Retrieving his crossbow bolt, cleaning and replacing it in his quiver, he swiftly picked up the Operative's corpse and rolled it into one of the many fissures where it was lost to shadow.

Solon Gothren checked the catches on his crossbow, and turned to examine the door of the Sanctuary. It looked prone to dramatic creakings. It was also heavy, thick, and very locked.

He knelt near the base of the frame, dark hair falling over his eyes. After moment's examination of the hinges, he produced a small screwdriver and with artist's hands began to ease loose the fastenings. The door shifted with a small grating sound.

Solon whipped round to face the cavern, eyes scanning the disjointed tunnels, but no guards appeared to investigate the minute noise. He turned back to the door, pocketing the screwdriver and replacing it with a lockpick.

A few seconds later the door swung slowly inward, silent on its loosened hinges. Solon immediately stepped inside, shut it, and melted into the shadows of the hallway beyond – and not a moment too soon, as a Dark Brotherhood assassin turned out of an adjacent corridor and walked the length of the hall before disappearing.

Solon kept perfectly still as he crouched in the darkness, crossbow precisely balanced. The assassin had been in easy range, but this was not a killing mission. The two guards outside had been necessary, and although he had made use of the chasms to ensure their bodies would not be found, any disappearance would make the Brotherhood suspicious. The key was to get in and get whatever information he needed without them ever knowing he'd been there. That was the mark of a good stealth artist.

The problem was, all the information he needed for Morgiah was inside a person, and it is impossible to get information out of a person without them knowing you've been there.

Impossible…?

Solon thought he had found a way. But it would be risky. The proof, as some said, would be in the pudding.

And what a pudding, he thought. _What_ a pudding.

He began to move, melting through the corridors, skirting the walls and avoiding the torches. Two assassins passed him unseeingly, but the deeper he got, the harder it would be. He was too far from the main door to rely on a last-minute sprint, although admittedly that was only useful in the event of getting caught. Solon never got caught.

His various forays into the underworld meant he had become familiar with a few Dark Brotherhood Sanctuaries in his time, albeit not this particular one. Subsequently he had some idea of their common blueprint, and headed to the back of the building. The Speaker's room would not be in the centre: too predictable. It would be on one side. He picked the right and turned a corner, but was almost immediately forced to hide behind a heavily-carven table as an assassin passed opposite, holding an empty tray.

An empty tray… the assassin had been bringing food, and no-one in the Brotherhood hierarchy would be waited on except for the Speakers. He must be close. He turned back to the left and crept round the bend.

He was met by the end of the corridor in which a door stood ajar. Through the crack he could glimpse a short alcove, and the end of a richly decorated room. The room must turn a corner before opening out into the main chamber; this was useful. It gave him a wall to wait behind.

He slipped through the doorway into the creamy glow of the lamp-lit Master Chamber.

Solon could hear someone moving beyond the alcove, but it seemed muffled and removed. There was a small writing-table next to his hiding-place; crouching behind it, he peered cautiously into the main room. It was larger than he'd expected, and at the opposite end another door opened onto a small study, equipped with desk, chair and bookshelf. Sitting at the desk was the Dark Brotherhood Speaker himself, Manos Othrelath.

Silent as a cat, Solon rose and ventured into the room. Outside the small study stood another little table bearing a goblet of flin, courtesy of the tray-carrying assassin. It was perfect.

They'd made it so easy for him!

Moving so as to position the door between himself and the Speaker, Solon brought a tiny phial out of his sleeve and held it up to the light. Its contents were thin and colourless. Carefully approaching the table, he tipped three drops of the liquid into the goblet, then withdrew into the corner to wait.

Solon was unlike other mages in one very important way. He used magic in conjunction with something just as powerful – the study of behaviour. Solon had never heard the word 'psychology', but was nevertheless better-versed in the subject than any other mage would consider worthwhile. The key to Solon's great success was his conviction that getting inside people's heads didn't just keep you alive; it made you unbeatable. The phial of potion nestling inside his sleeve was, for the moment, the crowning glory of his study.

A few years ago, Solon had been witness to an event which revealed to him a very interesting fact about sleeptalking: it is impossible to lie. The level of consciousness the mind occupies in shallow sleep is not aware enough to utilise devices such as humour or deception. If you can coax a sleeping person to respond without waking up, they will truthfully answer anything you ask them. The problem is, that is precisely the hardest bit – keeping a person in such a specific state without either waking them up or letting them drift into a deeper sleep.

That was where Solon's potion came in. A sleeping potion. A very, _very_ fine-tuned sleeping potion, tested and perfected over a number of years into the finished product that was now waiting innocently in the goblet of flin.

At that moment the Speaker pushed back his chair and returned to the main chamber, bringing a handful of papers with him. For a moment Solon thought he might come straight for the door, but halfway there he turned – yes, he was reaching for the goblet! Lifting it to his lips, he knocked back the contents in one gulp and set the cup back onto the table.

He turned to the door, then put a hand to his head. He swayed. He fell.

Like an adder Solon was there, catching the semi-conscious man and lying him on the couch. He couldn't help the spark of jubilation. Like a charm…!

The Speaker was making murmuring noises. Solon leant down, his nose and inch from the mer's face. "Hello Manos," he said softly, careful to keep his tone low and neutral. The potion had worked, but he didn't want to push it.

"Hello," mumbled the Speaker. His eyes were closed, but Solon could see a flickering behind the lids. His level of consciousness seemed to be perfect.

"What are those papers, Manos? A report for his Majesty the King?"

"'S," slurred the Speaker. Solon's face was a mask, but deep down in his stomach he was grinning like a wolf. "Intell'gence reports. Spies stationed all through the city, l'ke he asked. Evr'where covered, even the slums."

"And the palace?"

"N't there. T' risky."

So, Morgiah's meetings would be safe so far.

"What do you know of his Majesty's connections to the Cammona Tong, Manos? Have they spies in the city too?"

Manos frowned in his semi-sleep. "Place's riddled wi'em. 'S Maj'sty pracly controls th'whole org'nisation. Heard Dren's gn funny…"

This was news to Solon. "Gone funny? Funny how?"

"Lu'kin for some mer at th' plantation a coupl'a weeks ago. B'sessed with him. W'nts to find him."

Solon's eyes widened.

"This mer… does he have a name?"

"D'no," Manos muttered fitfully. "Ganos… Galos, maybe…?"

Solon's previous triumph faded, replaced by gnawing anxiety. This was not good news.

Manos' increasingly fretful movements brought him back to the present. He didn't have much time left; deal with the news about Dren later. Concentrate on the job…

"Manos," he said clearly. "Are there as many Cammona Tong spies working for his Majesty as there are Dark Brotherhood?"

"More. Scum."

"Are they in the Palace?"

"D'nt think so. Wouldn't dare…"

"But everywhere else?"

"N't a single tavern they d'nt have a spy 'n."

Solon knew that was almost his lot. He was reaching the limit of the potion, and there was still something else he had to do before the Speaker woke up. Lifting the unresisting body, Solon placed him on the floor by the table as if he'd fainted. Then, taking a small cloth pad from a pouch at his waist, he wiped the inside of the goblet, removing all traces of potion with the last of the flin. The mark of a stealth-artist – _no-one had been there._

He slipped out the door like a breath of wind. He was long-gone by the time the Speaker awoke, groggy, confused and with the half-gone memory of a very strange dream.

* * *

The study was not the largest of rooms, but the two men in it were sitting as far away from each other as was humanly achievable.

Caius and Crassius were chiefly sorting through letters. They had discreetly sent off as many as possible a few days ago; now they were sifting through the replies. Morgiah had been correct in assuming that their combined contacts amounted to most of Morrowind's aristocratic and underworld population.

Crassius stopped on one sheaf of paper for rather a long time, his eyes scanning the document. "This is interesting, _sergeant,_ very interesting. Apparently black-robed figures have been seen rather numerously around Tel Fyr for the last few months. Ser Fyr himself has not been so forthcoming, however. No-one's had a wink of him."

"We should report that to Morgiah," Caius said, his voice clipped and formal. "There's some information about several missing people here as well, including a Tulius Cicero – the name seems familiar, although I can't quite place it."

Crassius put the sheaf of paper down and focused his attention on Caius, an unpleasantly devouring grin on his face.

"So, _sergeant_. Are you enjoying your return to Vvardenfell?"

"Yes, thank you," Caius said stiffly, determinedly immersing himself in the pile of letters.

"Nice to see old friends again…"

"Lovely," said Caius through gritted teeth, now glaring at a letter grabbed at random.

"And what a welcome your little Nordic charge gave you! Pleased to see her, were you?"

Caius carried on burning a hole in the parchment, stubbornly keeping up the pretence of reading.

"Of course she and I bump into eachother so often, both being prominent members of House Hlaalu. Such a shame you don't get to see her as much as I do. But then, I suppose you had to sort out your little _addiction_ problem before you were fit to be around ladies again. Sweet tooth, eh!" Even Crassius' laugh sounded like a smirk. "Still, decent of her not to hold it against you…"

"Decent people tend to do that," Caius spat before he could help himself, the letter crumpling in his hand.

"Oh, she's certainly decent, I'll give you that. Take, for example, my conditions on becoming her sponsor for House Hlaalu. She was so _generous_ with the terms."

Caius was on his feet before he knew he'd moved, dagger drawn. He was shaking.

"She told me all about your _conditions_ for naming her Hortator, you filthy…"

Crassius seemed utterly unperturbed. "Honey-like, speaking of your sweet tooth," he mused, as if he were commenting on nothing more incriminating than a cake recipe. "Must be all that mead Nords drink."

Caius's throat seemed to have shrunk; he found it hard to force the words through. "You'd never have dared try a stunt like that if I'd still been on Vvardenfell. She'd have told me right away – I'd have been down here before you knew what was happening, you smug–"

"Would she, though?" Crassius asked mildly. "I remember her mentioning how brusque you could be. Perhaps she didn't feel she could confide in you at all. Shame, really, considering what she was going through at the time… estranged from her homeland… entombed in an Imperial prison… thrust into the venomous politics of an unfriendly country… Such a pity you couldn't have offered some much-needed comfort. Lucky, really, that I was on hand to _take care_ of things."

Caius tried to regulate his breathing. The last thing in the world he wanted was to let this smug piece of carrion think he was hitting home. "It never went that far, you idiot. Do you think I'm stupid? Have you _seen _that hammer she drags about? She could flatten you without breaking a sweat."

Crassius laughed jovially, the sound making Caius want to throw him out of the window. "My dear man, I doubt Molag Bal himself could force Nenya against her will. What makes you think she wasn't perfectly keen?"

_Don't rise._ "Liar."

"Am I," the councillor murmured. "Am I." He smiled, looking now at Caius' hand, balled into fist around the hilt of his dagger.

Crassius picked up a stack of documents and walked to the door. As he brushed lightly past, Caius' fantasised grabbing him, choking him, smashing his fists into his mouth over and over again, thrashing and beating and throttling until that smug face was running with blood, nose crushed beyond repair, eyes weeping red tears, teeth splintered, lips split and streaming…

He stood quietly and did nothing. Crassius passed unhindered and shut the door calmly behind him.

Cauis let out a long breath.

He couldn't lay a finger on him, of course. They all needed Crassius and his influence – Morgiah needed him. Caius knew that beneath the self-satisfied face and lecherous comments lay a formidable intelligence, running his leading House with faultless efficiency and dispatching his enemies with as much ease as posting a letter.

Caius knew that Crassius Curio was an indispensable political genius. But that didn't mean he had to like the man.

He sheathed his dagger with unnecessary force and flung himself back into the chair.

* * *

The fire was the only illumination in the Mournhold Palace study. Two women sat by the hearth, one drawing slowly on a hookah. Sweet, luxurious smoke obscured the candelabra and made the ceiling hazy.

"So," said Morgiah.

Bomba 'Lurrina looked at her with golden eyes, fingering the skooma pipe almost lovingly. "So," she echoed.

"He poisoned King Llethan and Talen Vandas, I am sure of it," Morgiah said quietly, looking at Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd's report. "And bittergreen traces were found on a piece of scrap linen outside the North Wing trade entrance, where black-robed figures have been sighted in the night. I wish I was more surprised."

"So do I."

Morgiah's glance reminded her that while people may talk ill of their own families, it is a different matter when an outsider does the same. Bomba 'Lurrina looked contrite.

"They are curiously gifted alchemists, the young couple," the Khajiit remarked. "Useful they happened to be passing through. Are they married?"

"No. They are colleagues, or so the Nerevarine tells me."

Bomba 'Lurrina drew on the hookah, a smile on her lips.

"Curio and Cosades' compilation is interesting," Morgiah went on, picking up the second bundle of papers. "Black-robed figures sighted infrequently after dark in scattered locations. Strange goings-on at Tel Fyr. A number of missing people. Surely Divayth Fyr wouldn't be involved with Helseth…? I thought him quite the recluse."

"Perhaps he isn't involved at all," said the Khajiit. Her red mane of hair glinted in the firelight. "There are any number of places he could be, other than Tel Fyr. But you would know your countrymen better than I."

"On the subject of you, I am sure that your discoveries in the Palace of Vivec put a certain name in your mind."

Bomba 'Lurrina breathed out a mouthful of sweet smoke. "You are thinking the same thing that I am. Nulfaga."

"It may be a shot in the dark, but she is the only one I can think of who connects the dots to Aetherius. You're right, this goes deeper than we thought." Morgiah looked thoughtful. "And then, of course, there are Ser Gothren's findings…"

"Ah, yes!" Bomba 'Lurrina smiled again. "The most beautiful prince of darkness. I wonder how often he's used his extraordinary appearance to his advantage?"

"A great deal, I would think," said Morgiah, her voice clipped. "Of all our recruits, I mislike him the most. I have no idea what he is thinking; I've no doubt he's perfected the art. He's dangerous. If Nenya hadn't recommended him, I don't think I'd have gone near him for any price."

"But she did… he is obviously out for himself and himself alone, but who isn't? He'll find you your answers. Or some, at least."

"He's already found out a lot. He's confirmed what I have suspected for a long time – Helseth has almost full control over the Cammona Tong, and much influence in the Mournhold sect of the Dark Brotherhood. Remarkable, considering both sides are in bitter feud. Which means we must be even more cautious; spies are everywhere."

"He didn't anticipate you," Bomba 'Lurrina declared softly.

She watched the thoughts ticking behind the Princess's eyes, but could not read their language. Ser Gothren was not the only one who had honed to perfection the art of mask-making. Bomba 'Lurrina had come to admire Morgiah throughout their sporadic acquaintance, but felt much the same about her as the Princess felt about Solon. An unknown quantity is a danger.

"You mean Helseth," Morgiah said calmly.

"Yes. I believe that when he stopped seeing you as a contender for the Wayrest throne, he stopped seeing you altogether."

This was perilous ground to tread, she knew. Dunmer royals had a very swift and non-reversible kind of answer to this sort of boldness. But cats are nothing if not curious…

"And when you left to live in Firsthold, you were a blank space in his mind which was taken over by more and more ambition. He didn't have room for you when you returned; that was why it was such a shock, though he didn't show it."

Morgiah was silent. She knew all this. She had come to these conclusions a long time ago.

"Why did you marry King Reman, your Highness?"

Morgiah's eyes bored into hers. "There were many reasons," she said.

"Was love one of them?"

Morgiah stood, suddenly quite frightening. The fireplace outlined her silhouette. "You push me, Bomba. You know more about these reasons than you imply. Do you think I have forgotten the letter you delivered as your first duty to me, nineteen years ago? I know you read it, not to mention the reply. I didn't expect you not to, but I thought it was a fair price for setting you up as Champion of the Bay. You know at least one of the reasons."

"I know at least one of Reman's," Bomba 'Lurrina returned, something of a purr in her throaty voice. "You were the only one who could let him speak to his dead son."

For a moment, she thought Morgiah would kill her on the spot. Surely she had gone too far.

But the Princess sat down again, slowly.

"Not the only one," she said.

"No, of course…" Bomba 'Lurrina replied softly. "Another King was needed too. And such a strange one… after all, every King comes to Worms in the end…"

The silence in the room was like a tomb. Morgiah was behind the firelight; her face was in shadow.

Then she spoke, very softly. "I know now that Helseth is monitoring activity in Mournhold – the place is crawling with spies. It is imperative that he suspects nothing. You made the journey to Scourg Barrow for me once, Bomba. I am asking you to do it again."

The Khajiit's eyes widened. Though she had subconsciously expected it, it was still a shock.

"_Our_ normal method of communication has unfortunately failed me this past week. If there is to be any magical activity, it must be from… _his_ end, not mine."

Something flashed in her fingers. Bomba 'Lurrina was familiar with the green gem, but it took a moment for her to realise that this was different – a blue one.

"I am sure you understand what this is for. Take it to _him_. Bring Nenya with you; explain to her on the way. It will be a long trip."

"I know it well," said Bomba 'Lurrina wryly.

A ghost of a smile passed over the Princess's face. "I am sorry to summon you here, only to send you back immediately. I know the Dragontail Mountains aren't the pleasantest of places. I will cover the cost of travel expenses."

"Thank you."

When the Khajiit had gone, Morgiah remained in her chair, staring at the fire. The green gem was in her hand, and she held it so tightly her knuckles were white.

* * *

**A/N:** I apologise for the length of this chapter. I toyed endlessly with the idea of splitting it into two, but I decided in the end that it interrupted the flow. I set all the characters up in Chapter 4 - I was aiming to mirror the format in this one, dealing with them each in turn.

Firstly, sorry for making Solon a shameless pretty-boy. But I thought it might be interesting - we've seen plenty of femme fatales, how about an homme fatale for once? I also wanted to make his beauty trans-gender and almost holy, because it's so ironic and at odds with his criminal lifestyle. He does have morals, but you'll have a hell of a time working out his boundaries behind that perfect emotionless face. The sleep-talk potion is entirely my own idea and something I'm rather proud of. I found out that sleep-talking trick from my friend Emily years ago - apparently her sister tried at a sleepover one night and it worked like a charm. I also learnt a few things about levels of sleep in my Psychology A-Level class, which was fascinating.

Bomba is one of the only characters you will not find anywhere in the games, and her presence is more author-service than anything - she was the player-character I used to complete _Daggerfall_ years ago, and I'm very fond of her. I named her Bombalurina, being a bit mad about _CATS_ at the time, and tweaked the name so it fit in better with Khajiit etymology. I'd also like to say for the record that she gave the Totem to the Underking, although Gortwog was her second choice. Aaaaaand the non-Daggerfall players have lost me here... But anyhow, I put Bomba and Nenya together because I just loved the idea of my old and new avatars reacting to eachother.

I also like the idea of Caius developing a sort of gruff fondness for his Nerevarine pupil, I can imagine him getting all outraged and protective over the Crassius Curio thing - which, by the way, I just HAD to put in. Come on, the official forums imploded with freaked-out teenage boys over that guy's letchery.

One more thing: Morgiah's line _"Do not let me detain you"_ is a direct reference to Terry Pratchett's Lord Vetinari, who says it often in a delightfully snarky manner.

I have that uneasy feeling that a university lecturer must get when they look up from their last half-hour of notes and realise not only is no-one listening to him, but the students have actually all left twenty minutes ago... It's the French cheese. It's playing havoc with my system. Just because I ingested the equivalent of a cathedral-full is no reason to... shut up, brain!

I'm going now. Thank you all, you're like pies on sticks. Much love!

xxx


	9. Interlude 3 What Karethys Didnt See

The King And I

Chapter Seven – Interlude Three; What Karethys Didn't See

* * *

_Wayrest, High Rock, Last Seed, 3E 399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23._

* * *

As Karethys' shadowy figure stole quietly ahead, so Morgiah's shadowy figure stole quietly behind. The main streets of Wayrest were brightly lit with shielded oil-lamps, but she was out of the town centre now. The tutor was hurrying and her pupil could barely keep up, but Morgiah did not call out. Because Karethys did not know she was there, and Morgiah was spying on her.

Since uncovering the meaning of the cloak-clasp rune, Morgiah had watched her tutor like a hawk. She had noticed that on several evenings a month Karethys would leave the castle and not return for hours; sometimes days. On this latest occasion, Morgiah had slipped out behind her.

It wasn't just simple curiosity, she knew. Since reading the name _Worm King_ a month ago, some strange fire had been lit in her. Who was he? _What _was he? And what was it that made thousands of Tamriellans call him their leader?

She ducked behind a brick wall as Karethys turned her head, scouting around before crossing a wide courtyard.

A lot of things had happened that month. There was uproar in the Imperial city as the 'Emperor' had been discovered to be the impostor Jagar Tharn, revealed and defeated by a Altmer hero. His bizarre behaviour of the past year now took on crystal clarity – Tharn had imprisoned the real Emperor in some kind of Daedric plane for the duration of his usurpation, and assumed his likeness. Morgiah was interested in the debacle for a particular reason; she was sure that there was a connection between this Hero and the rumours that the Ogmha Infinium had been found. And the Infinium was something Morgiah had been thinking about for a while now.

She hurried to keep up as Karethys turned a dark corner.

The trouble was, any lore to be found on the subject was profoundly unhelpful. The palace library at Wayrest was fairly well-stocked for a provincial collection, but any references she had found on the subject were frustratingly unvaried. A brief paragraph stating the name, which Daedroth granted the artefact, and the fact that the Infinium had been written by the mysterious 'Ageless One', Xarses. Of Xarses himself, Morgiah could find not a crumb of information.

She was beginning to feel the limits of Wayrest more strongly than ever. It was true the town was wealthy, sitting as it did on the convenient taxable trade-routes of the Bjoulsae river – but it still had not grown to the size of Sentinel or Daggerfall, the other two major powers of the Iliac Bay. It was not as old, either. Perhaps those cities would hold the information she craved…

Suddenly Karethys stopped and looked directly behind her. In the shadows, Morgiah froze immediately with her heart in her mouth. It was not so much the fear of getting caught, but that she would not get to the bottom of Karethys's mystery that made her fists clench and her mouth set…

But Karethys visibly relaxed as a rough-looking stray cat turned out of an adjacent alley, and continued on her way. After a moment, more cautiously, Morgiah followed.

Though she hadn't meant to, she had found herself expressing her frustration to her mother that day at supper. To her surprise, Barenziah had seemed almost verbose on the subject.

"_This library has been adequate for your studies so far,"_ she had said with a thoughtful look, "_but you seem to be exceeding expectations in that respect. If you want a decent library, most people would immediately think of the Imperial Library in Cyrodiil… the Elder Scrolls are kept there, of course… but for your sort of interests, I would look to the Altmer. Their lore goes back a long way. Alinor, perhaps… or Firsthold…"_

She knew the Ogmha Infinium was a ridiculous fantasy, but she told herself she would look into the matterof Altmer libraries, if only to humour her own whims.

Karethys was slowing down now. Out of the darkness ahead, a large and comfortable-looking two-storey house became visible. It looked plain but affluent, clad in timber with a veranda on one side. Karethys stole up to the door and knocked.

Voices drifted across the street, too faint for Morgiah to decipher. Someone spoke from the other side of the door; Karethys replied softly, and was admitted.

Morgiah hung back uncertainly. What now?

She crept to the side of the house. It was clean and expensively finished, like many of the houses in Wayrest. All the curtains were shut.

She dug her fingers into her palms in annoyance. Surely this wasn't _it?_ There must be some way for her to find out what was going on inside.

As she scanned the building, she saw a faint glow between the curtains on the first floor just off the veranda. All the other windows were dark. She examined the cast iron railings round the edge of the building and found them climbable.

After a few near-disasters due to the fact that royal gowns are not designed for scrambling up walls, Morgiah arrived on the veranda relatively intact and was pressed to the wall, peeking through the gap in the curtains.

The glow that had seemed comparatively bright from the ground was, in fact, a dim illumination from two candles. Seven people stood in the centre of a large empty room, arranged in a circle around a pedestal upon which lay a tightly-bound scroll.

Her heart beat rapidly with excitement. She recognised Karethys, but only just. The cloak she was wearing covered her face and was identical to those the other six figures wore, making them almost indistinguishable. As she watched, the scroll began to glow.

Karethys stepped forward, touched it, and vanished.

Morgiah's eyes were aglitter.

One by one, in intervals a minute apart, each of those remaining followed suit. Soon the room was empty, and although the light of the candles played on the pedestal, the scroll remained unilluminated.

Morgiah waited, holding her breath. Would they reappear…?

After five minutes, she sat on a convenient plant-pot that afforded a reasonable view.

After ten, she became impatient.

After twenty, she occupied herself by pulling stray threads out of the hem of her dress and weaving them into a bracelet.

After three-quarters of an hour, she put the bracelet down and began to think about her next move.

She looked at the position of the moon. Almost the first hour of the morning. For all she knew, Karethys and her companions wouldn't be back until light, and she couldn't stay on the veranda until then – she would be seen and have to answer some awkward questions. She must be back inside the palace by five 'o clock at the latest – the maids would be getting up by then.

So the question was, should she wait on the off-chance that the group would return, or should she cut her losses and leave?

She tried to recall memories Karethys' past absences. She lived in the palace for the most part, but when Morgiah had no lessons scheduled, she might often disappear. Of course, that was perfectly normal. But was it a clue to what was happening wherever the scroll had transported her?

Morgiah couldn't think of a single instance where Karethys had been out for the evening and returned before the next morning. It was always at least a day.

So she decided, partly by logic, partly by guesswork and partly by the fact that the plant-pot had become very uncomfortable, that she would return to the palace and keep a very sharp eye out for exactly when Karethys put in her next appearance.

That taken care of, she climbed (more carefully this time) down the iron railings, and made her way back to the palace feeling exhilarated but annoyingly unsatisfied.

* * *

_Palace South Wing, Mournhold, Morrowind, 10__th__ First Seed 3E 429, Present Day._

* * *

Morgiah looked up from her desk as the study door swung open, revealing Barenziah.

"What is it?" Morgiah asked, seeing the expression in her mother's face.

"Helseth left Mournhold twenty minutes ago," said Barenziah, "and is, so I'm told, heading to Vvardenfell in a very inconspicuous manner."

Morgiah put her quill down, thoughts beginning to form.

"Though you might want to know," Barenziah said mildly, bowing out and shutting the door with a quiet _click._

* * *

_Facility Cavern, Red Mountain, Morrowind, 11__th__ First Seed 3E 429, Present Day._

* * *

"An intriguing hobby," Helseth remarked. "Master Fyr was certainly… unique. Although I am not sure he would approve of the use his 'patients' will serve."

"I believe not, your Majesty," said the black-robed mer by his side.

The vault of the ruined Facility Cavern stretched above them. Abandoned Dreamers had flanked Helseth six-deep through the pathways to the centre of the volcano, but there had been no need. Nenya had done her job well; it had taken the better part of two years, but not a single blight-creature remained on Red Mountain.

"I am hugely impressed," Helseth continued. "When I conceived of the idea I didn't think it could be put in motion so quickly, or that the Corprusarium patients would be so… effective."

Above them stretched something massive and forbidding. No longer a ruin; it was now a construction site. A hundred Corprus victims, transported from the cellars of Tel Fyr, swarmed over its tarnished surface like ants.

"They work at a tremendous rate, your Majesty," commented the Abandoned Dreamer Master. "I believe it gives them a focus rather than the agonies of their infliction. Of course," he went on conscientiously, "their work is set to meticulous instructions given by Bagarn. Who could supervise the reconstruction better than an actual Dwemer? Tel Fyr really has been a gold-mine to us."

"It is a shame Ser Divath himself could not participate. Although I must say I find myself confused – surely Bagarn is in no condition to be, ah, issuing instructions?"

"He has invented a rather ingenious method of hand-signalling, your majesty."

"I see. Best to keep an eye on that – you impaired his speech for a reason, I beg you to remember."

"Of course, your Majesty."

Helseth cast a critical eye over the project. The progress was more than satisfactory. Only one thing remained…

"What is the news on the assembly of the two artefacts?" he inquired.

"The Totem is all but finished, your Majesty. The Mantella has presented more of a challenge, but Vivec and Bagarn are making good advancement. I would estimate a month, perhaps a little more, before it will be ready for the final stage. The inclusion of a soul."

"Yes," murmured Helseth, his eyes narrowing. The problem of suitable candidates still hounded him, though he was not without a plan. "I trust Vivec has not been problematic."

"He believes he is constructing a talisman to protect his people from the invasion of outside enemies, my lord."

Helseth almost laughed. "How ironic."

* * *

_Wayrest, High Rock, Last Seed, 3E 399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23._

* * *

It was the next evening before Morgiah looked up from her book to see a familiar figure opening the library door.

"Hello, Karethys," Morgiah purred. "Have you passed a pleasant day?"

"Thank you, yes," her tutor answered in her normal curt tone. "I thought tonight we might study stealth and concealment spells, what do you think?"

_How auspicious,_ Morgiah thought, and picked up her quill with a smile.

* * *

**A/N:** Your reviews have had the effect of a pint of vodka on me. You are all so nice!

So, with that in mind, some more questions answered:

**Guarhunter:** All your predictions have been spot-on so far! Thank you for your lovely comments :) There will definitely be more on Caius, Crassius and the other recruits - they all have big parts to play.

**Leth:** I'm glad you like Morgiah! She's a strange character, quite remote, but I find her likeable too. Hopefully, she'll live up to your expectations as the story goes on :)

**Ordinator's Hand:** What can I say? Thank you so much! That was exactly what I was aiming for - making it detailed enough but still simple enough to be an easy read. I'm also insanely pleased about you descriptions comment - I really have been trying to give as little physical description of Morgiah as possible, because I don't want her to turn into a Mary-Sue. Plus, what's worth knowing about her is in her character and psyche. I'm so pleased it came across how I intended it to.

Also, thanks to everyone who put me on their favourites!

If anyone's interested, There's a picture of Karethys at the UESP screenshots page. She's number 72, I think. In the game, she was standing in a room in Wayrest Castle behind the Throne Room. Like all the Dunmer NPCs in Daggerfall she had fair skin due to an art mistake that was later corrected by patch, but she had the characteristic red eyes.

Til next time!

xxx


	10. Here And There

The King And I

Chapter Eight – Here And There

* * *

Caius was helping Nenya pack.

"Which potions do you want?"

"All the ones in that drawer; can't be too careful. Especially when a wet fish could do a better spell than me."

Caius smiled. It was true, although Nenya seemed to have her own peculiar brand of magic; the fact that things just seemed to get up and make way for her.

"Had to nip over to Vvardenfell last week," he said, with the air of one about to pull some kind of trick. "Strange to be back in the Balmora house again." He gave Nenya a sideways glance. "I see you, er, kept it nicely."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose," said Nenya. Was that a blush tingeing her cheeks?

"Everything looks very clean. It was kind of you to wash the linen and stock the larder. I'm sure my old crockery didn't need to be exchanged for silverware, but it was a very generous thought."

"Well," said Nenya awkwardly, looking like a child caught raiding an orchard, "it's nothing, really. I was in town and had some spare money. It was just an idea."

He could have left it, but Caius couldn't resist the chance to push a bit further. Nenya trying to give a house a 'woman's touch' was like being hit full in the face by something that didn't know quite what it was, but was putting a hundred per cent of effort into it anyway.

"The, er, coloured paper lanterns were very… ambient," he went on impishly, thoroughly enjoying making her blush. "And the little roof-garden really brightened things up…"

"Had a spare couple of hours," mumbled Nenya, cheeks flaming. It was obvious that it had taken at least a week. "Look," she said quickly, "I know it's not really your style – I'll take it all away if you want. I just thought it would be nice for you to have something to come back to."

Caius was immediately repentant. "Oh, you skullthick Nord – I didn't mean it," he said gruffly. "It _was_ nice to have something to come back to, especially when I didn't expect it."

Nenya flushed again, this time with satisfaction.

"I can't wait to be back on a ship again," she said animatedly, turning the subject back to the impending journey to High Rock. "It'll be at least a week before we dock in Northpoint; plenty of time to get used to it again."

"I still don't fully understand what you're going there to do," Caius said, passing over a couple of potions which she tucked in a bag.

"Neither do I, not really. Bomba 'Lurrina said she'll explain more on the way. She's ever so interesting, you know. Different from the Morrowind Khajiit. I've never met an Ohmes-Raht before."

"I don't suppose you get many Khajiit in Skyrim, either."

"No…" Nenya trailed off, obviously lost in thought. She wrapped a loaf of bread in a length of cloth. Then, very resolutely not looking at him, she said, "I'm going back."

"Sorry?" said Caius, nonplussed.

"I've decided I'm going back. To Skyrim. I can't live here forever, Nerevarine or not. They'll have to start taking things into their own hands. I want snow and pine again."

Caius had halted at this alarming news. "Back?" he said, his voice a slight pitch higher. "But don't you – I mean, isn't there – aren't there things you need to do here? Sixth House bases, and things?"

Nenya scowled. "I've cleared out all the Blighted ones. Of course I'll come if they desperately need me, but for Mercy's sake – I don't even _come_ from here! It's not ALL my responsibility! It's time they started sorting out their own country for a change. I'm twenty-six years old, Caius, do you really think I should be doing this?"

"No," said Caius quietly. "I have never thought you should be made to do this."

They looked at eachother.

"Did I ever tell you about Fjordan?" Nenya asked after a moment.

"No," said Caius uncertainly.

"He was my foster-brother in our village near Winterhold. We grew up together. When I left he'd gone with my foster-father to hunt down a wereboar that had been terrorising the farms. I've never been able to find out what happened, because I haven't had a chance to go home yet. I know I've got responsibilities here, but I didn't take them on by choice. I've already spoken to Crassius – he says he's perfectly able to take care of my Hlaalu duties while I'm away."

The name Crassius and the phrase 'take care' wormed its way through Caius' mind, jolting him back to their unpleasant conversation the day before.

"As for the remaining Sixth Housers," Nenya went on, "well, what are Ordinators trained for? I'm sure they'd jump at the chance to crack a few heads–"

"Did you sleep with him?" Caius blurted out.

Nenya's jaw dropped.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Crassius," Caius insisted stubbornly, his eyes fixed on the wall next to her head. "Did you sleep with him?"

"What the – _what did he tell you?"_

Caius stared doggedly at the wall.

"Of _course_ not," Nenya said emphatically, sounding both embarrassed and caught off-guard. "He knows you don't like him. He's being his usual manipulative self."

Caius' cheeks were red. "He took advantage of you when you needed his support to be Hortator," he mumbled.

Now Nenya looked awkward. There was a Pause.

"It's not like I wasn't angry," she said finally, picking at a fingernail. "But between the survival of a nation and an anonymous Nord having to swallow her pride, where do the priorities lie?"

"I should have stayed. He wouldn't have done that if I was here."

The tension in the room was getting worse. Neither was looking the other in the eye.

"He never touched me apart from that one kiss," Nenya said quietly, coming to sit clumsily on the bench beside him. "I'd rather forget about it."

Oh god, Caius groaned inwardly, seeing her plaintive expression. He should never have brought this up...

The silence stretched on. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he grabbed the first subject that came to mind. "You know... your hair's longer. Than it was, I mean. Before... you know."

She looked up in surprise at the topic change, before lowering her eyes in embarrassment and tugging at a handful of straw-coloured tresses. "It's been a while since we last saw each other, I suppose." She twisted her mouth. "I should probably hack it off again soon. Gets in the way."

"I like it," Caius said awkwardly, and immediately wished he hadn't. There was another silence.

She coughed nervously. "Anyway, I have something to ask you." She said, fidgeting with her gauntlet buckle. "…Will you… will you come to Skyrim with me?"

Caius gaped.

"I mean, you wouldn't have to stay long," Nenya gabbled hurriedly. "Just a bit of a break from everything, you know…"

Don't do it, Caius' conscience told him. Don't say yes. It's an entirely platonic request; you'll be taking advantage of her if you go. You'll be no better than Crassius. Say no. Just say _no_…

He cleared his throat.

"I'd love to," he said.

Nenya beamed.

* * *

Wayrest had not changed much in the last decade.

The flower-beds were as lush and colourful as always; the privet-maze behind the palace was neatly clipped. Early summer rested balmily on the red-tiled roofs. The Wayrestians themselves were the same as ever – upper-class, gossiping, complacent and wealthy.

From a stained-glass window in the west wing of the palace, the Queen looked out over her dominion with pretty eyes of cornflower blue. Her fingers idly adjusted the coral-pink muslin of her dress, and lightly touched a ring on her finger - an odd thing, old-looking, strangely ill-matched to the delicate pastels of her garments. She turned from the window to face the man standing by the door, who was twisting a handkerchief in his hands.

"I employed you as a spy, not a conversationalist," she said pleasantly. "Do not be above yourself. Tell me plainly; can I use the Dark Brotherhood to disable my stepbrother?"

The spy wilted like a leaf under her gaze.

"No," he said tentatively. "King Helseth's ties with the Dark Brotherhood are complex, and in any case he is already involved in a number of contracts with them. It will not be possible to separate them for some time."

"Then we shall find another way," she declared, smiling at him prettily. A bead of sweat formed on the spy's brow.

He paused hesitantly. "There is… another organisation we might look to. The Morag Tong are a mainly Dunmer sect – the guild from which the Dark Brotherhood originally stemmed, though they are bitter enemies now. You could speak to them about a, ah, _writ_ for King Helseth."

Queen Elysana looked interested. "How ironic!" Her laugh was like silver. "He fled to them for sanctuary, and now they will be his undoing! This pleases me. Your counsel is good."

The spy visibly sagged with relief.

"With Helseth gone, I am the next of kin, stepdaughter or no," Elysana said slowly, rolling the words round her mouth like chocolates. "In _theory,_ the Mournhold throne should be turned over to me. After all, Helseth was the rival heir to the throne here, and he was Dunmer… why should it not be the same in the other provinces?"

The spy was temporarily shocked out of propriety. "My Queen – it would never happen! The Dunmer are fiercely protective of their customs; they would never allow you to rule! Barenziah would sooner retake the throne herself-"

Elysana looked at him incredulously, and her expression spoke thumbscrews and branding-irons. The spy shrank back against the wall. The queen looked away with haughty boredom, curling a golden ringlet around her finger.

"We will see," she said sweetly. "Leave now, and send up the groom."

The spy left.

Half an hour later, while the groom received orders to ready a carriage for a journey to the Dunmer province, two of Elysana's personal guards caught up with the spy and took him to the castle basements. He did not come out.

* * *

East of Wayrest, past the cultivated silt-plains and fertile valleys of its delta, the Bjoulsae river veers north and the land becomes rugged and barren – the outlying slopes of the Wrothgarian Mountains. This region is sparsely populated and unforgiving in general, but the southeastern spine is the craggiest, highest and wildest part of the entire range, and thrust on an outcrop of rock looms the stronghold of Shedungent.

Although she has resided there for over fifty years, Shedungent was not built by Nulfaga, nor even in her lifetime. High Rock is clannish, and its rulerships change as often as the wind, leaving only scattered remains as clues to kingdoms past. Only the faint oily hue of light around the castle main doors, telltale residue of a powerful binding-spell, hints at the activity inside.

Nulfaga is locked in a nightmare, believing she is in a dream. In a crumbling ruin, believing she is in a palace. In a cage of deceit, believing she is free. The black-robed figures who care for her are her angels; they listen to her rambling tales until her old throat is dry from speaking, they sit with her and soothe her and take away her loneliness, they call her 'Nanan', an affectionate term for 'grandmother' – such sweet familiarity! So sweet that it brings back the memories of her dear Lysandus…

Nulfaga begins to rock, the matted mess of her hair hanging down her back like a tattered flag. She cannot hear it, but she is moaning like something lost.

A black figure approaches. Her mouth is very red. "What is it, Nanan?" she inquires, the falseness of her concern utterly unapparent to the cripple before her.

Nulfaga rocks, her withered fingers compulsively plucking at the fraying sleeves of her dress. "Sit with me, little helper, little nurse," she croaks.

The woman in the black robe sits cross-legged in front of her, like some perverse mockery of a loving family.

"Tell us a story, Nanan," she says, the fanatical glint in her eye hidden by the darkness of her robe. "Tell us of the Mantella, and how it was made."

Nulfaga told her. She might as well have whispered it directly into Helseth's ear.

* * *

In Mournhold, the sun was setting.

Looking at Barenziah's eyes, one could see the same measure of concentration and intensity that was present in her daughter. What was burning and clicking and turning behind those eyes, red like poppies and blood and magma? What thoughts lurked behind that perfectly controlled exterior?

In fact, Barenziah was thinking how the windows in her parlour could do with some nice curtains. (Some things really _are_ as simple as they seem.) The Dunmer didn't generally go in for window-decoration, and she'd gotten used to them during her time in Wayrest. So many things that she'd been used to were now gone…

She grieved for Eadwyre. Like her first husband, Eadwyre and she had shared an unspoken understanding – but unlike Symmachus, Eadwyre had had a good-natured humour that lightened her heart and made her forget, for a time, the memories that haunted her. Life in Wayrest had been happy, at least for her. She had been in love, the people had accepted her, and she cherished her children with a quiet devotion which, although they responded as much as their distant upbringing allowed, the extent of which they never quite guessed. The only snag in the otherwise perfect scenario had been Elysana.

Sweet daughter of Eadwyre and his deceased wife Carolyna, girl of the golden ringlets, darling of the court… Wayrest saw Elysana as beautiful and charming, if somewhat lacking in intelligence.

Barenziah saw something else.

She saw the loathing glances toward her own children. As Elysana grew she discovered her involvement with one Lord Woodbourne, an ambitious young man who later was discovered responsible for the betrayal and murder of Lysandus, one-time King of Daggerfall and son of the witch Nulfaga. She heard, through various eyes and ears, of Elysana's ambition for the Wayrest throne and subsequent blackmail, manipulation and assassination of several court-members. Elysana's true personality was clearly the exact opposite of the sweetheart her nation adored.

After the second rise of Numidium and the 3E 410 disaster known as the Warp in the West, the competition between Helseth and Elysana began in earnest. The fight between the heirs was ugly, and culminated in Helseth's blackmail attempt: the threat to reveal Elysana's involvement with the traitorous Lord Woodbourne to the kingdom. The stunt backfired; the Wayrestian public were inclined to believe that Elysana had been an innocent victim, and in any case were far more likely to side with their own blood rather than a Dunmer outsider. Though some few may have had doubts, their voices were lost and the tide turned against Helseth. He fled to Mourhold, and since the elderly Eadwyre had died the year before, Barenziah followed soon after.

Morgiah, having denied any ambition for the throne, had been ignored and forgotten – not only by Helseth and Elysana but by Wayrest as a whole. She had in any case arranged for herself a marriage to an Altmer king in Firsthold, and was no longer a subject of interest.

This period of her daughter's life was still a mystery to Barenziah, peppered with tantalising clues that she couldn't quite link together. That Morgiah's study had taken her to strange heights and depths she knew, but the extent of those remained elusive. At the centre of it all was her marriage to Reman, the Firsthold king. This was an enigma for several reasons. Firstly, Morgiah had never met the man in her life. Exchanged a few ambiguous letters, perhaps, but she was certainly not one prone to girlish infatuations from afar.

Secondly, marriage in Firsthold would mean life in Firsthold, away from all her family and every place she had called home. She would be queen by the marriage, of course, but would that really gain her so much? The Altmer were so fiercely protective of their bloodline and culture that they put even the Dunmer to shame; they would never embrace her. Indeed, Barenziah knew Morgiah had been unpopular with the Firsthold citizens. It was not even as if she would have much influence – the power of the throne would lie with Reman, not any foreign trophy-wife he might fancy to take.

So _why?_

Barenziah had only tidbits to go on. She knew, for example, that Morgiah had not gone to Firsthold directly, or travelled there alone. Then there were the frustratingly obscure letters that had been exchanged for years between her and a mysterious correspondent in the Dragontail Mountains, a region she would have to pass through on her way to Summurset Isle – unless she went by boat all the way from Wayrest, which she hadn't. Coincidence? Barenziah thought not.

Then there were the whispers, few and far between, that Reman had made some sort of bargain with Morgiah – either she had something he needed, or there was something she could_ do…_ and in return, Reman would take her hand in marriage.

But it all came back to that blank, unanswerable question – what could Morgiah gain from Reman that she'd be prepared to marry him for?

Barenziah had exhausted this topic many times. She did not think Morgiah had been in love with Reman, although over the years a mutual tenderness seemed to have developed between the two. The Firsthold Altmer had certainly never accepted her, naming her the Black Queen and once even inciting a revolt to force her abdication. Was there something about Firsthold _itself_? The city was home to one of the greatest and least-explored libraries in Tamriel, and Barenziah knew well of Morgiah's thirst for learning, but would Morgiah really have married a man she didn't know just for a library?

The Queen Mother of Morrowind touched her hand to the window. It faced west, and the sun shone red through the glass.

The answer was there somewhere, back west, back in High Rock, back before Helseth and Elysana's deadly duel of wits. It was there, and she was going to find it.

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter is kind of bitty and all over the place, but it needed to be put in to show the states of the various secondary characters everywhere. I wanted to bring Elysana in fairly soon - she provides a vital link between the Hlaalu Royal Family's past and present, especially where Helseth is concerned. Plus, _Daggerfall _veterans might be interested to see her again :)

I also needed a chance to get inside Barenziah's head and explain to the reader exactly how much she does and doesn't know about Morgiah. As you can see, she has hints, but not the full story. I hope that by the time this story is finished, you'll have all the backstory on Morgiah you need, and all these questions will be answered. The only thing is; can I do it before _Oblivion_ comes out, and no-one is interested in the previous games anymore :D

Ok, comments. Thanks so much again for reviewing, everyone, and again to the people on the official site forums who always have something nice and constructive to say. You are all brilliant and keep me going with this!

**Bob the Quiet:** I suppose everyone gets a different impression of the characters. While Crassius seems relatively harmless in the game, I like to give people layers, and I thought the idea of his letchery and philandering habits hiding a very sharp political mind was quite interesting. I don't think Crassius would ever do anything really shockingly nasty, but I don't think he's above manipulation for achieveing ends or having a bit of fun with people... ie Caius. Poor Caius. Those two have a very interesting dynamic - the fact that from the outside, they're both Imperials and seem quite similar, but actually their morals and methods couldn't be more different.

**Sheepdawg:** Thank you very much! I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long :)

**Andy W:** Thanks for the reassurance, and I hope I didn't come off as patronising making everything so obvious - I just wanted to make sure it's all clear, and I know from experience that when you come back to a fic you haven't read in a while, it helps just to have a pointer to refresh your memory. And by the way, I'm thrilled to meet another Gormenghast fan - I read _Titus Groan _and _Gormenghast_ pretty much every year and I owe a lot of my writing style and technique to Mervyn Peake. I actually meant Morgiah to come off as a strange amalgam of Fuchsia and Steerpike - imagine _that_, if you will :)

**Funcokler Xerow: **Helseth certainly is extremely sneaky and rather ambitious to boot. I hope this chapter shed more light on him for you :) By the way, might I enquire as to the nature of your pseudonym?

**Guarhunter: **Nice to see you back! Yes, the King of Worms will gradually be, er, worming his way (sorry! couldn't help it) into the story from hereon in, and become a very major character. After all, it could be him that the title of the story refers to, if you choose to interpret it that way. Thank you so much for your reviews - your are always very interesting and helpful, and you always seem to pick up on the little things I slip in on the offchance someone will notice them! Oh, and by the way - congratulations on finally getting _Daggerfall_, I doubt I'll see you for months now!

Anyhow, see you all soon :) thanks for reading!

xx


	11. Interlude 4 What The Plague Did

The King And I

Chapter Nine – Interlude Four; What Happened Because Of The Plague

* * *

_Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Hearthfire 3E399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23. _

* * *

Wayrest's gates were shut and bolted. The quarantine was absolute – no-one entered, no-one left.

The plague had hit quickly and with little warning. There had been crises across the Bay, but it had seemed so far away, and now… even the Royal Family were prisoners, sealed within the relatively safe environment of the palace walls.

Relatively.

Karethys raved. Morgiah watched from the door of the makeshift hospital room; she had been lucky to get so far with the heavy restrictions placed on the family's movements. While she could, she stood unnoticed and listened to the delirious words…

"_NO!_ Let me – I mustn't – tomorrow, let me go, for tomorrow – please – please – must go – speak to him – _stop_ –"

One of the nurses noticed Morgiah and ushered her away, shutting the door with a final, resolute clang. In the darkened hallway, the light from the closed-off room gone, she leant against the smooth panelling and felt her heart beating. The corridor smelled of wood-polish and dust, but under the familiar scents there were medicinal herbs, sweat, and death.

Tomorrow.

They may have been delirious ravings, but Morgiah thought she knew what they meant. It had been two months since she had first followed Karethys to the meeting-house; since then, she had done likewise three separate times. Each time, the figures touched the scroll and vanished. Sometimes Karethys would be back in the morning; last time it had been two days.

Morgiah started to walk down the dim corridor. It was night, stifling and cloud-blanketed, the hot air begging for a thunderstorm to clear it. The plants glistened with moisture in the kitchen-garden, glimpsed through the small windows that dotted the servants' quarters. Bad weather for plague. No cooling, cleansing wind, no refreshing rain. Just this irrepressible stuffiness.

Another meeting tomorrow… a mad idea started to form in her head, one that made her heart quicken as well as her steps.

Karethys had not been wearing the cloak and clasp when she had been taken ill – they must be in her chambers somewhere. She and Morgiah were of similar height and build, their voices of comparable pitch, they were both Dunmer – Karethys was older, but the cloak would hide that…

Tomorrow.

Don't do it, she told herself. You're a fool with more curiosity than is good for you. You have no idea what's waiting on the other end.

But something had changed the day she had read the book of symbols in the library, saw the cloak-clasp, read _that _name. Something had a thread around her wrists and ankles and mind and it was pulling, pulling. She knew she would go.

And go she did.

* * *

Thirty years later, hundreds of leagues from each other, three people are sipping wine.

The first we know well. She wears a red dress and her eyes are far, far away. She is passion run by clockwork. On the table before her is a green gem; she is looking at it and thinking of all the things that have happened because of it.

The second we also know well. He is travelling back from Vvardenfell, brooding, thinking of Totems and Mantellas and fame and glory. The crown on his head is heavy, pressing into the skin of his scalp.

The third we do not know, except in legend.

We cannot see his face. No, of course not – who can? The wine in his glass is deep, deep red, like the dress of someone else. There is a strange symbol on the clasp at his throat – one that would be recognisable to some, but this particular clasp is old. Very, very old. The eyes that glow from under his hood are like no other eyes in the world, and they are fixed in thought.

And so these three individuals sit in three different places, their thoughts all occupied by one another. And when that happens to people, sooner or later they meet.

* * *

They were in a circle round the scroll. It was beginning to glow. Morgiah was sure the others would be able to hear her heart beating – it was so loud in her own ears that she could hear practically nothing else.

She had been admitted into the house by a silent, incongruously normal-looking blonde woman in a green dress and apron, who gestured for her to go upstairs. Passing by a few ground-floor rooms, she saw other people dressed in civilian clothes, all silent. She assumed they must be there to keep some sort of cover.

When she reached the scroll-room, six other cloaked people were already there. They spoke no word other than an introductory "Are you ready, sister?" Morgiah nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Then they gathered in a circle, and watched the scroll.

The glow was strong now. One by one, the cloaked figures stepped forward and touched it. Finally, only she was left.

She took one long, deep breath, and counted to ten. Then she touched the scroll, and everything went dark.

* * *

_Sooner or later they meet._

* * *

When Morgiah's sight returned, she found herself on a strangely lit podium covered by a heavy gazebo of luminous stone. What was it that made the sky so impenetrably black, or gave this feeling of closeness, weight, oppression…?

As her night-vision strengthened, she realised. She was underground. Torchlight flickered along the rough face of the rock. As she cast around, trying to get her bearings, she felt a shock of fear grip her.

She was not alone.

As her eyes adjusted to the light she realised that standing in the shadows beyond the gazebo were two figures, two shapes, whose outlines seemed terribly wrong.

One of them took a step forward.

Don't come into the light, Morgiah silently pleaded. Don't come into the light…

But the other shape moved too, and as the torchlight fell over their wasted remains, she felt her fear like a kick in the chest. Ancient Liches, their musty cloaks holding together decayed limbs, their battle-staffs crackling with half-wrought spells.

For a moment she thought she was done for. Though she boasted years of magical training, she'd never actually used it on so much as a kitchen-rat. Two Ancient Liches…

But she was prepared to go out fighting. As they raised their staffs, so she raised an outstretched arm, spells of fire and destruction on the tip of her tongue...

And stopped a moment before they flew from her palm. The Liches' staffs were raised, certainly, but not in attack. They were saluting. Bowing.

And now they were reaching out their hands – surely it couldn't be, though she recognised the gesture from a hundred grooms and nobles throughout her life – yes, it was unmistakeable. They were offering their once-hands to assist her from the platform, like any footmen might their lady. The unbidden comparison revolted her, even through her astonishment.

She took them, feeling the smoothness of dry bone. She noted with satisfaction that her own hands were perfectly steady. The Liches, like some kind of perverse suitors, opened an iron door in the rock and stood back respectfully as she passed through. Gesturing along the cavern corridor, they bowed once more and then withdrew, leaving Morgiah alone with the torches blazing from a line of alcoves.

She was breathing quickly. The shock had not yet subsided – and yet, what had she expected? These were the headquarters of the Necromancers. Liches were probably not the worst she'd see. And there was no reason to feel as if she were in deadly danger when at any moment she could cast the Recall spell back to the meeting-house in Wayrest. Next time, she chided herself, she should cast a Mark in the Palace itself.

But she was determined not to Recall yet. To have come this far already, to have risked so much; her spirit balked at the thought of flight. What had she come here for? Knowledge. To learn, to sate her powerful curiosity. And always at the back of her mind like a canker – the idea of catching even a glimpse of that fabled figurehead of this profane branch of magic, that leader, that Worm King... It was like a guilty secret, impossible to ignore. She had not come this far only to go back.

Instead, she started down the corridor. It was little more than a tunnel of rock; at least she thought so, until one of the torches flared and she saw the myriad unrecognisable symbols that crawled over the walls like oil through water. She guessed at the meanings of some, but soon gave up. Their only recognisable qualities seemed to be some common traits with Breton, other with Altmer – but she could discern no more than that, and the way the torchlight made them creep along the rockface made her stomach churn.

Presently she came to a heavy set of double doors. The sounds from beyond them seemed unnatural after the oppressive stillness of the corridor, but before she could hesitate, the door swung open and she was looking into the heart of the Necromantic world.

It was a vast hall, polished smooth and animated with some of the last things she had expected to find in such a place. Conversation buzzed all about her, unstilted and lively, and (perhaps most disconcertingly of all) sweet fluting music drifted from the far end, where groups of dancing girls were gathered as if in a temple.

"Welcome, Brother," said a rich voice from her right. Turning, she saw a tall, powerful figure of a man, a red hood obscuring his face but otherwise naked from the waist up. She realised she must have been staring.

"May I be of assistance?" prompted the guard; for so he must have been. His voice was surprisingly calm and pleasant, though there was something disconcerting about the way his face was obscured. She thought about correcting his address of 'Brother', but then realised it was probably a standard greeting, regardless of gender. She had heard the Dark Brotherhood used a similar system.

"What is your name?" she asked, feeling a sudden rush of boldness. She knew she ought to keep as low a profile as possible until she was familiar with their ways and customs, but she couldn't resist a little indulgence.

Luckily, the guard didn't seem to feel her question was out of the ordinary. "I am called Klark, my Sister," he replied, his voice firm but amiable. Ah, so 'Brother' was only a default address after all. She would have to learn all this if she wanted to be convincing.

"Then thank you, Klark, but no," she answered, feeling a little squirm of pleasurable excitement. "I'm meeting someone," she added on improvisation.

"Go well," he said simply, the device on his spear gleaming. It was identical to the one on Karethys' cloak-clasp; it winked at her from the throats of a hundred others throughout the hall.

She moved, dreamlike, through the crowd. The flute music, high and haunting, floated through the air and seemed to work the torchlight into its song, for she fancied the flames dimmed and flared according to its pitch. Groups of people mingled and talked, their faces hidden like hers; some sounded casual and familiar, some serious and formal. Dancing-girls wove sensually throughout the host, their skin creamy in the half-light, made faceless and nameless by the hoods that fell to their mouths. Incense curled through the air. How strange. Temple scents, temple practices…

She saw several doors, but for the most part the polished walls receded into blackness, and here and there she could detect the shadowy outline of mouldering capes and dry, spiderlike joints. More Liches, silently flanking the edge of the cavern. Her wariness, which had eased at the introduction of Klark and the groups of talking people, came back full force. Her spine crawled. The hall might seem welcoming of a sort, but one glance at the figures lurking just out of sight and she remembered where she truly was, and the awful risks she was taking.

Before she had time to dwell on this uncomfortable state of affairs, she realised the crowd was quietening and parting.

Someone was coming through.

She fell back and peered, jostling for a glimpse, although she already knew deep down what she'd see…

The leader of the Necromancers. The King of Worms.

The meagre noises in the hall seemed muffled, inconsequential, as he neared. A scarlet cloak fell about him in heavy folds. As he passed, he turned his hooded head in her direction – she stifled the gasp, but not the racing beat of her heart. There was nothing there.

_Nothing._

No face; not even shadow. Only blackness, denser than a night without the moon, save for where two points of blue light glowed at eye-level like unnatural stars in an inhuman sky –

– and half a moment after he'd come into view he'd gone again, disappearing into a door beyond the dais. The conversation, respectfully stilled at his entrance, rose once more.

She felt weak and drained. She was shaking, but not with fear – excitement? Anticipation? It was hard to tell… she had become unable to think straight, her thoughts jumbled, her concentration shot. She had lost control.

And that meant she had to leave. She was not so undisciplined that she misunderstood this vital fact – the moment she had less than total mastery of herself, she was putting both hers and Karethys's lives at terrible risk. She may have been here only a few minutes, but she had already reached her limit. To overreach would be to ruin.

So she turned and wove back through the crowd. Klark opened the iron door. His voice – "Until the twenty-fifth, Sister" – did not properly register with her, and even if it had she would not have trusted herself to answer. Her boldness had vanished along with her composure, and it was simply too dangerous. Neither did she proceed to the gazebo chamber with the Liches. Halfway down the silent corridor, in the dark lull between torch-brackets, she cast the Recall spell and appeared in the wood-panelled salon of the meeting-house.

She climbed out of the window rather than venture downstairs, and saw no-one on the way back to the palace.

Once in her room, she sat on her bed with her head over her knees. It was only when dawn began to break that she was able to take off the cloak, hide it at the bottom of her wardrobe, and get into bed.

Palace life went on; Elysana played, Helseth brooded, Karethys raved. But Morgiah still couldn't sleep; not then, and not the night after. Not for a long time.

* * *

**A/N:** A more manageable size chapter, hopefully :)

Firstly, again, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, and the people at the official forums. You've all been so helpful and supportive. Sometimes I get a bit depressed about this story, because I've been putting blood sweat and tears into it for two years now, and in the end it's only fanfiction... but then I log on and see your comments, and it's all worth it :D

**Bhen:** Thanks as always for your very generous reviews! I hadn't thought of doing spin-off stories for most of these characters - the only one I'd toyed with is now no longer possible due to a rather drastic plot alteration on my behalf. But I do find Solon very interesting; he's got quite a ride yet to come. You're welcome to use him in a story of your own if you so desire!

**Funcokler Xerow:** There's even more Helseth to come, I promise :) Also, spoilsport on the penname :p

**Zealit:** Certainly Crassius is necessary. You mean you didn't find him a hoot in the game! Let Ser Curio swing both ways in peace, I say... :D

Random chapter notes - like most of the places and characters I've included in this story, the meeting-house Karethys sneaks off to actually is a real place in Wayrest in _Daggerfall_, although I believe it's actually a Dark Brotherhood hideout. It's about halfway into the city southwest from the Palace - and yes, it's big and wooden with a verandah. Anal eye for detail? Me?

Also, I want to apologise if anyone was confused by the switching from past to present during this chapter. I originally intended the 'Interludes' to be solely about Morgiah's past leading up to her move to Mournhold at the beginning of the fic, but they also became a very convenient place to slot in tidbits from Helseth's point of view. If it's getting annoying, don't hesitate to tell me :)

One more note; this line: _"And so these three people sit in these three different places, their thoughts all occupied by one another. And when that happens to people, sooner or later they meet"_ is a paraphrase of Philip Pullman's words in his novel _The Ruby In The Smoke _- not the exact wording, since of course it's dealing with different characters, but similar. This concept stuck with me when I read it, and I thought it was a very interesting way of viewing fate.

I've _got _to stop ruining the story with author's notes. Oh, whoops, too late.

Damn.

xxx


	12. Outward and Inward

The King And I

Chapter Ten – Outward and Inward

* * *

The ship was rocking a bit too much for Bomba 'Lurrina – the wind was high, and their speed was good. To combat her natural dislike of water and what she suspected was a threatening bout of seasickness, she watched Nenya with increasing fascination.

Although from the moment they met each other, Bomba 'Lurrina had seen nothing but cheer and friendliness in the girl, there was a gauche ungainliness in her manner – like a teenager who hadn't got out of the awkward stage, as if she wasn't entirely comfortable in her surroundings. She was a head taller than most Dunmer, and her pale colouring made her stand out instantly in any crowd. Perhaps because of this she wore her armour everywhere; Bomba 'Lurrina had assumed it was either the most sensible thing to do in her Nerevarine role, or simply the most convenient, but now she began to think differently.

She had been to Skyrim in her time. It was so entirely, vastly different to Morrowind that she wasn't in the least surprised that Nenya would feel unhappy and out of place in a region so alien. The armour wasn't just to protect her from blight creatures and fanatical temple loyalists, it was to protect her from _everything_. When she put on the inch-thick plate and leather, she was the Nerevarine, and could cope unfailingly with any duties and hardships the Dunmer expected of her. Without it, she was Nenya, and she couldn't.

With every level of of the Nord that she uncovered, Bomba 'Lurrina became more and more intrigued.

The armour was gone now, discarded in the cabin at the beginning of the voyage. Nenya was leaning as far over the rail as she could, straw-like hair in rough pigtails completely disarrayed by the wind, not even slightly fazed by the lurching deck and looking almost as if she were a fixture of the ship itself. She was still as incurably clumsy as a cheerful blonde hurricane, but now instead of clashing with her surroundings, she seemed to _fit_. She belonged here.

As Bomba 'Lurrina watched, the object of her rumination leaped down from the rail with a _thump_ and effortlessly negotiated the impossible rocking, coming to flop onto the bench next to her Khajiit companion.

"You look green as a muckpond," Nenya said happily. "Want me to get you a potion?"

"No, thank you," scowled Bomba 'Lurrina. "I'll be fine, although it doesn't help to see you skipping around as if you were born to it. And I'm not _green."_

"Just an expression. Well, take your mind off it; how about telling me why her Highness has arranged such a treat for us?"

"_Treat?_ Speak for yourself," muttered Bomba 'Lurrina sourly. However, the idea of distraction certainly seemed appealing, and it was time Nenya was filled in. She shifted into a more comfortable position, and noted with satisfaction that the rocking had lessened.

"We'll be docking in Northpoint Bay, as you know. There are two main things her Highness wants us to tackle – firstly, have you heard of Orsinium?"

Nenya wrinkled her nose. "In passing… it's the Orcs' place, isn't it?"

"It's their Capital," confirmed Bomba 'Lurrina. "I expect you were too young to remember the realisation of an Orc state by the Emprie, or the beginning of their acceptance in society. It happened around nineteen years ago – probably nearer eighteen, actually."

"I was seven," supplied Nenya helpfully. "I didn't really hear about much outside Skyrim."

Bomba 'Lurrina was tempted to question her further about her childhood in Skyrim, and what situation landed her in the labyrinth of Dunmer politics at such a young age, but restrained herself. Not yet. It was too personal.

Instead, she continued with the subject at hand. "The Orsinium Area backs right onto Wayrest, the province where Morgiah grew up, where I first met her. If there has been no new successor – and I'm sure news would have reached us, even in Morrowind – Gortwog will still be their chief."

"I've heard of him," said Nenya slowly. "I met quite a few Orcs in the Fighters Guild. They all spoke of him… reverently, I suppose."

"They were right to do so," Bomba 'Lurrina said stiffly, a slight snap in her voice. "Even now, the Orcs are not appreciated for their true worth. 'Savages'… even 'Beastmen' is an accepted term still. It's madness. Gortwog is worth more than a whole regiment of Imperials."

Nenya looked taken-aback by her vehemence, but weighed in nonetheless. "I didn't mean to offend. I'm in the Fighters Guild; I know how honourable Orcs can be. But I don't understand – what have they got to do with Morgiah?"

"Gortwog was in close touch with Barenziah when she lived in Wayrest – and he knew a lot about Helseth," said Bomba 'Lurrina. "Honestly, Gortwog knows a lot about everything. He has contacts, legitimate or nefarious, with an astonishing amount of influential people in Tamriel. It may be that we can find something out from him about Helseth's intentions."

It didn't add up, and Bomba 'Lurrina knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth that the story wouldn't cut it. She realised now that Nenya was not stupid, despite the simple exterior she presented to the world.

Sure enough, Nenya was looking at her with sharp eyes that seemed peculiar in comparison to her usual light-hearted expression. "We're travelling hundreds of leagues on the offchance that an Orc on the other side of the continent might have heard something about Helseth's slightly odd recent behaviour," she finished.

And Bomba 'Lurrina knew that she could not keep the cards to her chest.

"There is… another thing," she said somewhat lamely.

Nenya looked steadily at her. Then, to the Khajiit's surprise, she pulled a section of hair round and started to re-plait it instead of pursuing the conversation. "I know you and Morgiah are in confidence. If you can't tell me everything, that's fine. I'll go along with you and do my bit and not ask questions."

This put Bomba 'Lurrina out of sync so much that she immediately felt she _wanted_ to divulge the real reason of their voyage, and what's more, was sure that it would be in safe hands.

"No – you deserve to know what we're getting ourselves into. I trust you," she said in a rush of affection that was quite alien to her. Nenya looked surprised, but pleased.

"I trust you, too," she said clumsily, smiling.

"Well," said Bomba 'Lurrina quickly, feeling awkward and keen to skate over the moment, "we _are_ going to see Gortwog. But… that's just on the way. We're going to Wrothgaria to investigate an old acquaintance of mine by the name of Nulfaga… and then, we're going to the Dragontail Mountains."

Nenya frowned in confusion. "But that region's practically deserted, isn't it? I thought –"

"There is a place in the Dragontail Mountains called Scourg Barrow. It was once a run-of-the-mill abandoned stronghold – crawling with the usual vermin, nothing outstanding or special – but now, it's something else. A headquarters. A meeting-place. A Centre."

Nenya was staring at her. "Centre of what?"

Bomba 'Lurrina looked out over the gunwale to the foamy tips of the waves. Her golden eyes were incalculable once more.

"We're going to see a King," she said. "Keep your hammer close. You'll need it."

* * *

Mournhold, the hub of the ancient capital Almalexia, makes up only one ninth of the city. The rest sprawls, fantastic and mutated, over the gently sloping fertile land that eventually sinks, after many miles, into the southern swamps of the Black Marsh border.

Mournhold is spotless and decorated, filled with attractive parkland and spacious open architecture.

Outer Almalexia is a seething hive of craftsmen, merchants, courtesans, thieves, assassins, urban catastrophe and jumbled beauty. In a tiny inn slanting crazily over the narrow alley in the bad part of town, Solon Gothren was sitting in a room enchanting arrows.

Solon was very good at enchanting. He was very good at a lot of things, but it had come at a price, and his expression as he concentrated on the arrows was the mask of blank inscrutability that had put him so deep in the mistrust of Morgiah. She was not the first to have felt so.

But for each one that mistrusted, there were a hundred more that were enchanted…

Solon was very good at enchanting.

A thread of golden fire left his fingertip and wound its way round the arrow, like a snake choking a rat.

He was thinking about his Dark Brotherhood foray, and the words he'd heard from Manos Othrelath. Not the locations and numbers of the Mournhold spies; no, things like that were par for the course when you lived a life like Solon's. He was thinking about what Manos had said about Orvas Dren.

Solon had left the Dren mansion ten days ago, only a few hours after Nenya's visit. He hadn't hung around. It was true that working for Dren had been profitable for a time – if you lived in the underworld, the Cammona Tong were invaluable allies. Their networks were vast, their control reaching far beyond the wildest dreams of the oblivious citizens of Morrowind. A Cammona Tong connection could get you out of debt, out of prison, or even out of a noose. But a few months after Solon had come to the Dren mansion, things took a turn for the worse.

Orvas Dren took an interest in him. Personally.

You might say he was enchanted.

Solon had not meant for it to happen. It had occurred before, of course; fascination with Solon was quite common, and he'd been on the receiving end of infatuation more times than he'd had occasion to count. There was something shocking about his appearance that left you breathless, wounded – you wanted to see more, you _had_ to see more – everyone felt it sooner or later. All hopelessly irreversible. All totally without Solon's doing.

He was indifferent to the process, as he was indifferent to everything. Over time as he'd realised the extraordinary lengths of his criminal talents, any reciprocal feelings became secondary. It was not true that he was totally inured; Solon was indeed capable of love. He loved his work. He loved the quiet intense concentration of enchanting an arrow; he loved the slow simmering purification of a potion of his own invention; he loved the satisfaction of the quiet _click_ that signalled the undoing of a particularly tricky lock. He loved melting into the shadows at only a moment's notice. He loved the artistry of his work.

Solon was not disdainful of emotion. Quite the opposite – being so far detached from the phenomenon himself, it was something he looked on with powerful interest. People, their personalities and their indiosyncrasies, were as fascinating to him as he himself was to others. The sleeptalk potion he'd used on Manos, for example, could not have been created without several years of indepth study of human behaviour. What he never realised, though, is that his exceptional understanding of the subject of humanity came from being so separate from it. This was never a conscious decision – simply the years of his career and the solitude it had brought, not to mention the caution that was essential to survival, taking its toll. He had not noticed the decline. It had happened naturally.

He had assumed that Dren would function in a similar way. He was quite used to the reactions he provoked in others, but with Dren he had been blasé, allowing himself to indulge in what he now knew was a crippling mistake: he explored the situation. He had encouraged it, even. They had shared several evenings in each other's company, albeit chaste – he hadn't wanted to get _too_ involved, after all. It was psychologically interesting, and he had unconsciously reasoned that the headman of the Cammona Tong would surely be as emotionally detached as himself.

He had been wrong.

On the night that he left the mansion with Nenya, things had come to a head. Avoiding Dren was becoming difficult. He'd felt his natural survival instinct kicking in… disappear. Melt away. Fade as if he'd never been there. Outright rejecting Dren was a far too risky – Solon may have been the most adept criminal artist to set foot in the mansion for more than a century, but the ill-attention of the Cammona Tong headman was not a wise goal for anyone. Better to slip away. When Nenya had arrived, he felt a noose lift from around his neck. The perfect opportunity – even if he _had_ been tracked down, the protection of a Princess is not something to be taken lightly. For a while, he had immunity.

If he was lucky, Dren might forget him as a lost conquest. The trouble was, people didn't tend to just 'forget' Solon.

He looked away from the last of the arrows to a letter on the small battered desk. The seal was not explicitly marked, but the quality of the paper was exquisite. He had known it was from Morgiah the moment he received it. It said simply: _Sundown, this coming Loredas. RHM study. The South Wing arbour entrance will be unlocked._

He slowly put the newly-enchanted arrows into his quiver one by one.

There was a sense of enormity about the world at that moment – the sinking sun outside the window, the quiet of the alley below, the muffled sound of voices in the main street. For one moment Solon had the impression of being at the edge of a huge web, one that he dare not touch, because the spider in the middle would feel the slightest movement … But who was the spider? It couldn't be Dren. This was bigger than either of them.

He put the last arrow in the quiver.

The feeling did not go away, and when he lay on the narrow bed and closed his eyes, his dreams were full of shadowy shapes caught in the dark strands of a web.

* * *

There are three figures in a room with stars for walls that stretch to heaven and back.

The first one is golden. Golden skin, golden eyes, golden dreams. His motions have the languid abandon of madness. He is showing a small tablet-like object, about the size of a forearm, to a servant in a black robe at his side.

The third is silent and massive, his lower body wedged into a cruel-looking contraption with eight metal legs. Now the object has been finished, he sits motionlessly with downcast eyes. Yagrum Bagarn, the last Dwemer, has no glint of hope any more.

The robed servant bows low. "My Lord… we are forever indebted to you. The Totem is exquisitely made. When the Mantella is finished, we will finally be able to defeat the malevolent invasion that has overcome your people. Once again, you have delivered us with your infinite goodness and compassion."

Vivec nods. He _is_ good and compassionate, of course. He knows this. It was he that agreed to make these talismans in the defence of his people. It was he that directed the Nerevarine to Red Mountain and told her about the Beginning, the war, and Dagoth Ur…

Something surfaces in the darkness of his mind, like the flip of a glinting fishtail in the murk of a pond.

For a moment his eyes clear, and he looks around, lids wide, his limbs beginning to tremble…

"Where am I?"

The black-robed servant becomes wary, backing away. "My Lord… you are in a haven… you are creating the talismans we need to defeat the threat to your people…"

There is something… there is _something…_ Something is wrong… Totems… Mantellas… this happened once, long ago, when his mortal self died and his immortal guise rose to glory and power… _Why was it that 'Totem' and 'Mantella' were ringing warning bells in his mind?_ _What were they for?_

Kagrenac… the hulking shape of the mute creature beside him…

_Golem…_

It is too difficult. The pieces slip through his fingers like sand, the fishtail sinks back into the murky depths, and Lord Vivec's eyes cloud over once more.

"Of course. You have the Totem. Now I and my faithful servant here shall turn to the Mantella."

The servant relaxes. "You are certainly our salvation, lord."

Vivec never asked the name of the 'enemy' the robed servants spoke of. The question had never come up. Sheogorath must surely be laughing; it was the madness spreading through the self-made god, not the star-walled room or the black-robed figures, that kept Vivec prisoner. There was no enemy but Helseth's obsession, a blinding pinpoint of light in the now-wasteland of his thoughts. It was all that mattered. He had been humiliated in Wayrest. The world would pay for that.

Whether _he_ would pay for it along with the world, is a question as of yet unanswered.

* * *

**A/N: **So, questions and answers!

**IXth:** Your comment's been there for ages, and I'm so sorry I haven't been able to reply sooner. The question on new lore has been very perplexing to me - I've had my plot sorted out since very early on, and some of the new stuff that's come up (particularly in the Lore Thread RP on the Official Forums) has contradicted it completely. Since I really can't change the whole plot now (it'd just be starting all over again) I've decided to just slap an AU label on this and leave it at that. I can see that Vivec would retain some of his sanity, but I just wanted to explore a different possibility - that losing his godhood, as well as knowing his two fellow Triunes have met horrible ends, would be too much for him and push him over the edge. Regarding Scourg Barrow - I may go back and modify that. I really did want to get that feeling of something awful lurking in the peripheral vision, but I don't think I pushed it enough. So thank you for all your feedback and comments, I really appreciate it :)

**Andy W:** Thank you so much, as always. I'm definitely building up to more drama in Morgiah's excursions - the plague isn't over yet, so she's got a few more Scourg Barrow outings to come. And of course, sooner or later she'll get discovered :D

**Squall and Queen of Storks: **Thank you very much, and I'm sorry it's taken such a long time to update!

**Stormy:** Hello, you :D Thanks for the review! To answer your Nulfaga query - I know that the completion of the Daggerfall quest seems to make her sane again, but I thought that frankly, the die had already been cast. Nulfaga is an incredibly old woman who has been absolutely _steeped_ in magic all her life, and to my thinking, that will have an adverse effect sooner or later. It's not just common magic she does; my reasoning was that to be so deeply entrenched in planes of existence other than your own (ie Aetherius) would sooner or later send you a bit batty. With Nulfaga, it's a case of all these things piling up to overwhelm her, much like Vivec. It's been too long with too much magic. It will take its toll sooner or later. Hope that explains my motive a bit clearer :) And thank you for reviewing (_hugs)_

Thanks to everyone. Here's to my exams getting out of my face as soon as possible!_ (clinks gin-glass)_ Cheers.


	13. Interlude 5 Interview With A Necromancer

The King And I

Chapter Eleven – Interlude Five; Interview With The Necromancer

* * *

_Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Hearthfire 3E 399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23._

* * *

The Wayrest library was dark. Only one candle burned on the reading-table, with the adverse effect of making the darkness around it seem all the deeper.

Morgiah sat at the table. The candle illuminated her bodice, jaw and lower lip, but nothing else. She was not reading. She was sitting still, staring into the flame.

Oh, what's changed? Threads around the wrists and ankles and mind, pulling, pulling… Karethys was still delirious with fever. The cloak and clasp still hung at the back of Morgiah's wardrobe. She would go again, she knew. Of course she would. Oh, those tricky threads.

Those sparks of blue fire, burning from under the red hood…

She would go again.

* * *

_And night fell, like a cloak._

* * *

The hall was as she had remembered; full of life. Only the faint pervasive presence of the guard liches, all but hidden in the shadows of the cavern wall, hinted at the purpose of this place. Death was there, like the lingering trace of perfume in an empty room, dark and unsettling.

Morgiah wound through the host, bodies stepping back and closing in after her like a dance, like a river. The strangeness of it was palpable to her. Just as last time, sound was everywhere – voices, raised and lowered, and the half-caught strains of fluting from the dancers whose hoods glimmered through the sombre grey like ruby jewels.

She barely managed to contain herself when she felt something pluck at her arm. Turning swiftly, she saw another cloaked shape that might, under scrutiny, have belonged to one of the Wayrestians from the veranda house.

"Karethys? You're in next. Did you go in early last time? Theodyval Coppersley said he couldn't find you after his interview. We wondered if perhaps you had strayed from the hall – Scourg Barrow is such a maze beyond the habitable parts."

It was lucky she was wearing a hood that all but obscured her face – Morgiah may have been better than most at remaining impassive, but even she stumbled momentarily at this confusing revelation. They were required to _report_ to someone on these clandestine visits? And she should have done so last visit? She should have researched this properly, she realised. She was just getting herself into hotter and hotter water. The mention of _Scourg Barrow _was a gift, though – up until now, she had had no idea where in Tamriel this place was located. She would have to pay a visit to the Palace's map room when she returned.

Despite the unexpected turn of events, her voice was calm and she answered without any noticeable hesitation. "Yes, I was early. I wasn't able to stay long; I Recalled straight back afterwards. I'm to go now, then?"

"Yes, he's ready. Until next time, Sister." The figure turned away. Morgiah's mind was racing – how could she find out where to go without seeming obvious? There were a couple of doors leading off the main hall further to the back of the dais, but she couldn't be hesitant about which one without causing suspicion.

She eyed the doors carefully. She hadn't noticed people coming and going from the central ones; they would have passed directly through the torchlight of the dais, and that would be obvious. It must be a side-door. The one to the left, in dappled shadow but not total darkness, was flanked by a tall guard similar to the one by the main entrance. It wasn't much to go on, but it would do.

She began to weave through the press of bodies, refusing to admit to herself that with every step, she was sinking deeper into folly. Was this really justifiable? Who was 'interviewing' her, what about, and how well would her cover hold up under this added pressure? She really ought to cut her losses and Recall as soon as possible. She would be back in the Palace within moments; she could replace Karethys' cloak and return to normality. After all, she had already caught a glimpse of the King of Worms, and wasn't that enough? She had no real interest in Necromancy for its own sake; it was its mysterious figurehead that had drawn her. She should leave before she put her life, and perhaps also Karethys's, in further danger. The greatest wisdom is in knowing your limits.

Perhaps that was Morgiah's greatest failing. She knew what her limits _ought_ to be, and ignored them.

She crossed the short space to the door; the guard, evidently expecting her, inclined his head in her direction. "Karethys Drethan?"

She nodded in return, conscious all the time of whether her hood was adequately obscuring her upper face. "Yes."

He stepped aside. "The King of Worms will see you now."

_The King of Worms will see you now._

Morgiah's heart nearly stopped right there on the dais.

She had never in a thousand years assumed that the conductor of this unexplained interview would be the King _himself._ For a moment she froze, battling with herself, voices shrieking their own internal conflicts as she struggled to regain composure.

But she wasn't given a choice this time. She was at the threshold; there was nowhere else to go. The guard turned the handle and ushered her through – she had the impression of candlelight, a red cloak, two pinpoints of blue light… and then the door swung shut behind her, like the lid of a coffin.

* * *

_Palace North Wing, Mournhold, Morrowind, 11__th__ First Seed 3E 429, Present Day._

* * *

Helseth paced through the doors of the Palace North Wing, removing his travelling-cloak and handing it to a servant. "See that my study is prepared. Dralen," he called, motioning for his steward. "Ensure the trade entrance is cleared. You know what I mean."

"Brother," pronounced a voice from his other side, a purring voice that was about as welcome to him as a pit full of snakes.

He turned around slowly, forcing what he hoped was a winning smile onto his face. "Sister. Are you well?"

"As well as can be, thank you." Morgiah sashayed over, eyeing the attendants who were now hastily stowing Helseth's outdoor clothing. For a wild moment, her animation and quickness of breath almost made him think she had run down especially to see him – which was of course beyond absurd. "Been out visiting? I did not realise you had business outside the city."

"State visits, you know," he said airily, feeling his fists clench unconsciously. More policing… why was she _doing_ this? Did she know something, or was this always how she been? He tried to think back to when they had last lived together. To his alarm, he realised he no longer had any idea of what was 'normal' behaviour for Morgiah. Had they really grown so far apart?

"Of course. You are so busy now," his sister smiled. Her pleasantry was truly bizarre. "Perhaps you are not too busy to have dinner with me tonight?"

Survival instinct kicked in. "I'm afraid I am tied up with court business tonight. It's so dull, I know. I apologise."

To his utter astonishment, something flickered in her eyes – surely not _disappointment?_ He could hardly decipher it before it was gone, leaving him uneasier than ever.

"A pity. Another time, maybe. Goodnight, Helseth."

"Goodnight," Helseth replied automatically, feeling relieved despite himself.

As she retreated down the corridor, he caught a glimpse of green in her palm, flaring in the lamplight. Helseth's eyes narrowed. The image jolted a memory in him… a memory of Morgiah, long ago in Wayrest, before they had gone their separate ways… the flash of green was a gem on a chain. She had had it before she left for Firsthold; he remembered now. He had barely registered it at the time, being so involved in his battle with Elysana.

But a spark of intuition came to him unbidden. What on earth would make Morgiah carry round such a plain and nondescript gem so for many years? It wasn't as if she was partial to subtle decoration. The dress she was wearing now probably cost more than the whole of Godsreach. Was there something… _odd_ about the gem?

Of course, his imagination was running away with him. Why shouldn't she wear jewellery from their youth? He rubbed his eyes. He was getting paranoid, carried away.

But as he looked back once more to see Morgiah slipping through the doorway to the Great Hall, the flash of green came again, putting him unpleasantly in mind of a staring eye.

* * *

_Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Hearthfire 3E399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23._

* * *

Morgiah hung Karethys' cloak in the very back of the wardrobe, and lowered herself slowly into the deskchair of her study in Wayrest Palace. She was shaking.

And then she began to laugh. Elation was flowing through her – a wild, hysterical, frantic kind of elation – she had done it! The giddy excitement was like champagne, like opium; she felt dizzy and weightless. The memory of the danger and risk of exposure was like a drug. She was gone; she was lost.

The scene still hung before her eyes in vivid detail. What had surprised her most had been the… _normality._ The King of Worms had courteously invited her to sit down as if they were guests at a fancy restaurant. He had offered her wine. Perhaps rather sensibly, she had refused – after all, she was on thin ice to begin with. And then he had talked to her, simply talked, for almost an hour.

She had realised quickly that the reason for the 'interviews' was espionage. The cloaked figures were evidently informants as well as Necromancers. The newfound knowledge had, primarily, been a bone of contention for her – she had trusted Karethys. She and her tutor had never had what anyone would call personal conversations, but living in the castle, she would obviously pick up a great deal of information without having to ask a single question. The thought make her feel naked, unsettled. Exactly how much did the King know about her family? About _her?_ And what purpose might this information eventually serve?

Nevertheless, she had found herself strangely disarmed. The thing she _really_ hadn't expected had been the King's charisma. He had spoken to her like the better class of courtier – intelligent, witty and charming. And always, underneath every word he spoke, the faint aura of a power she couldn't even begin to measure. Quite simply, he was fascinating. The shock of this revelation was something she hadn't quite recovered from.

She had given him a few harmless tidbits of palace life, the kind of things Karethys would have been likely to pick up. Their conversation had been lively, scintillating and thoroughly enjoyable. She had found him an excellent verbal sparring partner – so good, in fact, that she had to constantly keep herself in check should she get carried away and slip into her own personality. She suspected she had already been more challenging than Karethys might be. She would have to be very careful next time.

Next time?

_Oh no you don't,_ admonished her conscience_. The more you go, the harder it will be to wriggle out of. When Karethys comes back, the cat will be out of the bag. They'll know she was being impersonated, and it won't take long for them to make the connection. And what's the penalty for that? You know nothing about these people. They're __**Necromancers.**__ You have no idea what they're capable of, what their retribution will be._

_But when Karethys gets better,_ said a louder voice, _you'll never be able to go again. Why not take the chance while it's there? Where's the harm?_

Everywhere, of course. The harm was everywhere.

But that wouldn't be enough to stop her.

* * *

She was stepping back outside the door, wondering how on earth she could pretend she had slept tonight, when a small muslin-pink figure flew round the corner. Too late to check its speed, the shape crashed into her head-on, the two of them stumbling back into the wall. Reflexively, Morgiah raised a hand – until she saw the yellow ringlets, the cornflower-blue eyes narrowed in pique. Elysana.

Panting, the younger girl tugged away and put a hand to her shoulder, where an angry pink mark was blossoming.

"Mind where you run," said Morgiah stiffly, regaining her balance and straightening her skirt. "You'd better let nurse look at your shoulder."

Elysana continued to glare, her rosebud lips scrunched in obstinate silence. The older girl was just starting to turn away when she heard a whisper, nearly inaudible: "Black devil."

Morgiah turned around and slapped her across the face. The sound rang out loudly in the dark corridor.

For one moment, Elysana's face cleared of covert pettishness and was taken over by pure shock, her eyes stretched so wide that the whites could be seen all around them. Her hand flew to her cheek. She stared, speechless.

"Go to nurse," Morgiah repeated quietly.

Elysana backed away slowly, expressions Morgiah couldn't read lurking behind her doll-like features. Then she turned and disappeared down the corridor in a flash of pink.

Morgiah found that she, too, was breathing fast. She leant against the wall, chewing her lip, staring unseeingly down the now-deserted gallery.

She could not pretend she hadn't desired the satisfaction of that slap for a long time. But there had been something about the change in Elysana that had unnerved her – something had risen in her eyes that had been dormant before. Fear and hatred. Oh, very much hatred. There had always been tension between the three stepchildren, but Morgiah had a disquieted feeling that with one strike, she had let loose a beast.

Which was ridiculous, of course. The child was nine years old. Hardly a threat, she told herself.

She could not have been more wrong.

* * *

**A/N:** As always, I owe a great deal to the wonderful people who have supported me along the way, namely you readers/reviewers! Thank you so much for sticking with me. Much fuzzy love :)

**bhen: **I miss you! I looked for our original fanfiction thread in the Lore section the other day, and it had finally been deleted. Too sad :( I met so many wonderful people there, and you are one of the most wonderful of all :)

**Andy W: **As always, your comments and criticism are hugely appreciated! Thank you so much for taking the time to write such thoughtful replies. I love your idea about Nenya; she does have some interesting personality quirks, and you're bang on as usual - they are not quite all her own. I won't say any more, but like always, you are on the right track! Also, you are correct about my error re: 'slightest of movement'. Going to correct it right away! And I am English, FYI :)

**Ho Skoteinos: **Your poetry has stunned and moved me. Rarely do I witness such delicious euphemism. Continue on with your bad self, sir!

**Sierra: **Another one I've really missed. Thank you so much for your continued support - I value it more than I can say :)

Is it me, or have I overdosed on smileys...? Oh noes!


	14. Concerning The Nature Of Espionage

The King And I

Chapter Twelve – Concerning The Nature Of Espionage

* * *

Solon was freelancing.

It wasn't exactly in the contract, he knew. Morgiah had not explicitly asked him to go off and make inquiries she hadn't suggested. But he was in the mood for a little adventure, and he had a unique talent for making people talk – the sleeping potion was only one of his methods, and that a last-resort. Those talents were the reason her Highness had hired him, after all.

And so as he wound his way through the seething streets of Outer Almalexia, he headed for one of the most disreputable taverns he could think of. One that would be up to its rafters in Cammona Tong agents.

He had to admit, his reasons were partly selfish. He had his own investigating to do; this business with Dren was weighing on his mind. He needed to know how exactly what the situation was, and how safe it would be to make himself known to any Tong high-ups at the moment. For all he knew, Dren had put a price on his head.

Above and around him, the towering mills of the Silk Quarter loomed over the half-timbered buildings like admonishing masters over unfortunate pupils. There was always a crowd here. The main goods market was only two streets away, and with different stalls opening at different times, the trade was all-hours. With the constant press of people came taverns, brothels, skooma-dens and Guild hideouts – there was no better place if you liked anonymity.

The faded sign of the Grieving Kagouti loomed from under the eaves of a nearby house. Solon pulled his hood lower over his brow, and pushed open the door.

It was dark. A candle stood on each table, but this was obviously a place where bright light was discouraged. Clandestine midnight meetings don't lend themselves to clean lamplight. Solon slid along the bar, ordered a glass of sujamma, and inspected the prospects of the room.

Along the main line of the bar the drinkers were loud and raucous. Three were genuinely blind drunk, but the fourth was faking – Solon could see at once the tell-tale signs of over-slurring, the control of the mer's arms under the pretence of languor. He was obviously playing his companions for something. Certainly not the kind of situation Solon wanted to get involved in at present; he turned away from them. Various other groups of people were clustered around the dingy tables lining the walls. Most were deep in discussion, but one Dunmer woman sat slightly apart from the rest, and she was already eyeing him with interest.

He closed his eyes lazily, looking away – and then back, glancing at her through strands of dark hair with a look that could have floored an ice-queen.

The woman was hooked.

Like a fish on a line, he reeled her in mentally, and she stood – this was the thing that fascinated him the most; they always believed they were acting on their _own initiative_ – she sauntered over, no doubt congratulating herself on her own show of careless confidence, and slid into the seat next to him.

"Ser, I do not have the pleasure?"

"Dram Saryoni," Solon purred, shaking her outstretched hand. She was a flirt, and he responded accordingly, lingering on the formal touch for slightly longer than necessary.

She noticed of course, her lips parting a fraction in anticipation. "No relation to the Archcanon, I presume?" Her tone was throaty, teasing, pleasant to hear. He might have liked to talk with her freely, had the circumstances been different.

"Unfortunately not. I hear he's a soft touch for a destitute nephew, or great nephew, or perhaps great _great_ nephew – he's getting less good at hiding his age, no?"

The woman let out a flurry of laughter at this delightful bitchiness, her waterfall of copper curls gleaming in the candlelight. She herself was flawlessly free from blemish, though he judged her to be several decades older than him. Someone who liked vigour and youth, he surmised, and clung to it wherever they could. "Forgive me," she smiled. "I'm Felara Ules. Enchanted to meet you, Ser Saryoni."

"Dram, please," Solon insisted effortlessly, signing to the bartender to fill her glass. "And the enchantment is, of course, mine. Are you a visitor to Almalexia, or do you know it well?"

"Very well indeed." She sipped her drink. "In fact, I'm something of an expert. And what of yourself? How is it that I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you before? We don't get many new faces in this dive."

Solon leant back against the bar, his simulation of lazy abandon perfect. "And why is that?" Hopefully, it would be because this was Cammona Tong turf, and he could start buttering her up for information.

"Because they don't last long if they're not part of the club," Felara purred, suddenly sounding rather predatory. Solon was impressed. So she'd had a secondary motive for introducing herself – to scope out whether he was a Tong sympathist, and presumably get rid of him if failed the test. Considering her obvious attraction to him, this dedication to duty was rather admirable.

"Well, it pleases my gentlemanly instincts to relieve you of such unpleasantness. I'm club through and through," he assured with a winning smile. "In fact, I've only just arrived in town from the Ascadian Isles. Perhaps you can fill me in on the talk from the city?"

Felara relaxed, seemingly satisfied. 'Ascadian Isles' was, for anyone in the know, a reference to Dren's plantation. "I'd be delighted. But it's so crowded in here… why don't we head out?"

Solon looked at her gleaming curls, full lips, the spark of intelligence in her teasing gaze, and thought: why not? She was interesting, and Solon was always keen to explore an interesting personality.

He discarded his glass on the counter and angled his arm. She took it, and they stepped out into the night.

* * *

Morgiah was in her study, quill in hand, the lamps lit to a creamy glow by Kippet the maid. She had been trying somewhat unsuccessfully to gather her notes on the investigation, but her mind was stuck on her conversation with Helseth the previous evening.

When she'd seen his carriage approach from her window, a sudden flash of nostalgia had gripped her. For a moment she was plunged back into Wayrest, back into the only stable environment her extraordinary family had known, into the memory of the strange muted comradeship she had shared with Helseth before everything had gone wrong. Without pausing to check herself, she had rushed to meet him.

The fantasy hit its first snag when she felt the waves of animosity rolling from him as she made her entrance. Whatever he had been doing, he clearly felt caught out. And then the invitation to dinner – it had popped out before she could stop it. What had she been thinking?

Of course, he had refused. And the years of separation and distrust had broken through the charade, crashing down between them like an ironclad wall.

In the back of her mind had been a wild hope that perhaps if somehow they could talk on their own as equals, he might confide in her whatever ill-advised scheme he was concocting and she could steer him away from it. He was her little brother. It was her job to mentor him, not to spy on him.

Ridiculous, of course. They were not children any more, and this was not a game of jack-dice they were playing. It was a game of politics, of countries, of lives. Lives that could be lost.

She crushed down the spike of disappointment within her, and returned to her notes.

* * *

In the Great Bazaar of Mournhold, Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd were spending some of their newfound wealth at the best alchemist in the city. With finally enough money to spend on some real extravagances for research into their tonic, they had taken the opportunity with both hands.

"I'm so sure that _water_ is the missing link," Gwynabyth declared passionately, rummaging through the sheaf of notes in her satchel. "All our findings point that way… Fish, it has something to do with fish. Scales."

"There are a lot of different fish," Eadwyrd pointed out dryly. "How selective do you think we need to be?"

"Well, that's what we're here to find out." Gwynabyth managed to stuff the sheaf back into her satchel, and began to scour the shelves. "Any marine ingredients – particularly ones that may have innate magical properties. Rejuvenation, protection, that kind of thing. That's why I mentioned scales – they protect, don't they?"

"You can't seriously want to buy everything in this shop that has anything to do with the sea," Eadwyrd said a little disbelievingly as another customer clattered down the stairs. I mean, that's a bit- oh, sorry," he broke off, stepping back to let the customer through. "That's a bit extravagant, isn't it? We need to watch our money, even with the salary from this new job. We have to keep enough to get back to High Rock."

But Gwynabyth didn't answer him; she had paused, hand hovering over a bar of sload soap, staring open-mouthed at the customer who had just passed them by. Jolted out of his train of thought, Eadwyrd turned to look – it was an Imperial, probably only a few years older than himself, dressed in armour. As he opened the door his eye caught Gwynneth's unabashed gaze; he preened outwardly for a moment, puffing his chest and giving her a flirtatious wink before striding outside.

Eadwyrd turned back to Gwynabyth, flustered and confused. All right, the Imperial had been relatively handsome, but he had never known Gwynabyth to go moonstruck over adventurers before; she was far too clever for that. Muscles… what were muscles? He'd thought she'd be more interested in someone intelligent and gentle… scholars, maybe… or poets…

Gwynabyth was still staring at the door. "Did you-" she whispered – "did you see what he-"

"Yes, I did," said Eadwyrd a little sulkily. "I don't see what's so-"

Gwynabyth came back to earth and saw his expression; she looked torn between amusement and impatience. "Eadwyrd, you goose," she snorted. "He wasn't _that_ handsome. I meant, did you see what he was wearing? His _armour?_"

"Oh," said Eadwyrd, slightly embarrassed. "I didn't notice… What was so special about his armour?"

The excitement floodedback into Gwynabyth's eyes. "Dreugh! It was dreugh-plate! Of _course_…"

"Their protective hides," Eadwyrd said, realisation dawning. "They have a sort of inset healing charm…"

"And that passage in Baron Dwynnen's Alchemia!" Gwynabyth said breathlessly. "'The half in the sea'… we assumed he was talking about measurements, but it must have been a reference to the dreugh! Half man, half sea-creature. Dreugh-wax! And- oh, Eadwyrd, I think we've cracked it!"

Laughing in delight, she threw herself at him and he caught her up, swung her around – her smiling face was so close to his – he felt the familiar lurch in his stomach, that wave of helpless falling that had only gotten stronger over the years.

Oh, this is what it should be like! Not the quiet, tight-lipped, socially-refined relationship of his parents, not the poor doomed obsession of Lord Castellian to Queen Elysana – it should be all playful banter, equality – Gwynabyth's soft arms round his shoulders, her warm body so close, her chocolate eyes, teasing laugh…

I'll tell her, he thought. I'll tell her very soon now.

* * *

In the dim lamplight of the rented room, Solon watched from the bed as Felara Ules brushed her hair. She was sitting at the little bureau, unashamedly and comfortably naked. Solon was liking her more and more as the night went on; the immediacy and passion with which she had made love to him, the articulacy and wittiness she employed in her speech, the graceful abandon with which she held her body. Her vibrancy was totally alien to him – he, whose every intention was ulterior, whose every word was premeditated – and he found himself irrepressibly drawn to a nature so opposite to his own.

"I'll be visiting the Ascadians myself in the next few days," she informed him, continuing from their earlier conversation. "Can you give me the low-down? Dren shouldn't be back from Almalexia for a week or so yet, but I'd like to get myself integrated before he does."

Solon was momentarily surprised. Dren was _here?_ Paranoia reared its ugly head, but he mastered it before it could show. Dren would have far more important reasons to visit Almalexia than to chase a runaway conquest.

"What exactly is he here for?" he asked as casually as possible. "He tends not to leave Vvardenfell much these days – got pretty much everything he wants right there. Important business, is it?"

Felara looked over at him, a flash of mischief in her features. "You didn't hear it from me, of course, but he's been at the Palace. I bet he and Helseth are cosying up – after all, our new Majesty doesn't seem nearly as shy of _unconventional_ means as the old one, and who couldn't profit from a relationship with Dren?"

"Who indeed," murmured Solon. This was the stuff he wanted to know. He wondered how long he could keep her on the subject before it looked suspicious – he decided to throw Manos' information into the mix and see what it turned up. "I wonder if he really is taking a greater interest in Almalexia – after all, there's Tong in practically every part of the city now. Much more than even a year ago, if you ask me."

"True," Felara agreed. "He must have stacks of reports in that basement of his at the plantation. Used to be so you could hardly get in the door; imagine what it's like now! I bet he has dirt on every noble in the city."

"Not to mention the Royal family," Solon pushed.

"Probably them more than anyone. I hear he's got swing on a few Palace servants." She laughed. "Wouldn't want to be _them_ if they ever think about crossing him. Can you imagine it? Royals on one side, Cammona Tong on the other? Not for all the ebony in Caldera. "

"Mm," said Solon, an undercover agent employed by the Royal Princess to doublecross the Cammona Tong. "Certainly not."

* * *

Soon after dawn the next day, Morgiah once again assembled her players. The meeting was far less crowded this time; only two of the seven recruits were present. Solon and Caius sat before Morgiah's mahogany desk, looking as comically mismatched as two people ever could.

The Princess flipped conscientiously through their respective reports. "I am most impressed with your work so far, Ser Gothren. Nenya's trust in you was not misplaced. I must admit, though, your news is disconcerting." She looked up and addressed Caius. "Sergeant Cosades, I will fill you in – Ser Gothren has discovered a worrying of Cammona Tong control in the city. It seems that most of the major governmental bodies have been infiltrated, including the Palace."

Caius looked surprised. "That's out of character as far as I know, your Highness. Infiltrating the Palace? Sounds more like spy-work to me, and the Cammona Tong aren't spies." He hesitated, shooting a sideways glance at Solon. "Well… not _all _spies, anyway."

"Until this week, I would have agreed with you," Solon replied, "but my recent information indicates otherwise. It seems they are not here of their own initiative; rather, they were _invited."_

"Invited? What on earth do you mean?"

Morgiah tapped her quill against the inkwell. "Helseth has always had a talent for working with a province's existing organisations rather than against them. He sees them as a natural resource, if you will. There was a similar situation not long ago regarding the Dark Brotherhood."

Caius looked sour. Too late, Morgiah realised his closeness to Nenya meant he knew the exact nature of that particular 'situation'. It would not do to get her recruits all het up about her brother taking out an assassination writ on the Nerevarine.

"Which," she continued with a contrite glance, "I apologise for on behalf of his Majesty, of course."

Caius shrugged, still looking resentful. "Not your fault, your Highness."

"I apologise anyway. But to continue: this report is alarming. Ser Gothren, you said you have intelligence that Dren is keeping extensive records on the royal family in his Ascadian Isles estate?"

"It appears so, your Highness."

Morgiah thought for a moment, processing the information. This was unwelcome news. "Sergeant, I am intrigued by your findings also. These black-robed people seem to be popping up everywhere. Tel Fyr, you said?"

"Yes, strangely. The locals are getting jumpy. There's something not quite right about Tel Fyr these days."

Solon raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Has Tel Fyr _ever_ been 'quite right', I beg to ask?"

A smile twitched Morgiah's mouth. "Master Fyr _is_ rather an eccentric. Do you have any idea of what might be going on, Sergeant?"

Caius wrinkled his brow. "Curio got some information from a Hlaalu undercover contact in Sadrith Mora. It seems Ser Fyr has been ordering a lot of alchemical equipment to the tower in the last twelve months."

Morgiah's moment of humour evaporated. "Alchemy?" There were too many links with Helseth here for comfort. She didn't at all like the sound of her brother being in league with as powerful a sorcerer as Divayth Fyr. Fortunately, she herself was not without contacts in Sadrith Mora.

Now she had a choice before her. It seemed plain that Dren's mansion and Tel Fyr were both places that merited investigation, but which should she cover first? She was of a mind that these particular recruits might benefit from taking this one together. It was obvious that one more assignment with Crassius Curio would push Caius over the edge, and she didn't fancy smoothing over a murder as well as everything else.

Of course, she could cover both by splitting them up and sending them to one estate each… but the mention of alchemy had put another thought in her mind.

"I am placing you together on this particular case," she finally announced. "I want you to go to Dren's estate. Get in there, and get rid of those records by any means necessary. We simply can't afford to have Dren sniffing around. Ser Gothren, use your Tong influence if need be; I know you have bargaining power in that area."

To her surprise, Solon did not look at all happy about this decision. She shrugged it off. If her instincts were correct, he and the sergeant would prove a good team, however oddly matched they might seem.

After the two had bowed and left, she took out a fresh sheet of parchment and addressed a letter to Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd. If alchemy was coming into play, then it was just as well she had two of the best alchemists in High Rock on her doorstep.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you very much for the continued reviews - I really appreciate the time it takes to write one! **Finwitch** (great name), you're right, Sharn gra-Muzgob could well have been one of the anonymous cloaked figures Morgiah saw in Scourg Barrow - but of course, it would all depend on her age. According to lore, beastfolk tend to have shorter lifespans than the other races (although I believe the jury's out with regard to orcs, since they were actually elves at one point). Considering the timeline (Morgiah first visits Scourg Barrow in 3E 399), Sharn would have to be at least 50 in Morrowind to have been present back in High Rock (the main fic date is 3E 429, and one assumes it takes at least 20 years or so to become a good enough mage to dabble in Necromancy). So... well, I'm probably delving far deeper into this than you wanted :p

Anyway, thanks so much for the thoughtful comments! x


	15. Interlude 6 The Red Lady Plans Deception

The King And I

Chapter Thirteen – Interlude Six; The Red Lady Plans A Deception

* * *

_Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Hearthfire 3E 399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23._

* * *

Breakfast at Wayrest Palace was being served.

It was Barenziah's wish, and therefore Eadwyre's command, that the Royals – along with what select lucky courtiers held their present favour – take as many meals together as possible. She had the idea that it would promote familial affection. Morgiah thought that perhaps her mother was being a touch optimistic.

Beside her, Helseth's knife scraped moodily over the gilt plate, skirting an untouched pastry. A shame, thought Morgiah absently; some poor kitchen underling had obviously slaved over this artwork of suet and icing, and there it was, unwanted and looking distinctly forlorn. Helseth had always been picky about his food.

Eadwyre was, as usual, far too effervescent for the earliness of the hour. He was speaking animatedly to Lord Castellian, a rather dashing Breton in his early twenties whose future looked set for military fame. The young Lord was obviously a good source of information on current affairs. At present, he was explaining the campaigns of the local knightly Orders.

"It's a fairly ambitious scheme, in fact," he was saying. "It is the first time, certainly in my career-"

"Which is not, my lad, without its deficiencies in years," Eadwyre interrupted with a wink.

Lord Castellian smiled indulgently at this good-natured jibe on his youth. "-which, as your Majesty rightly points out, is nevertheless in its early stages – however, the older knights agree. It is highly unusual for two Orders to band together in this way. Particularly since Wayrest is a good forty leagues from the Dragontail Mountains; perhaps even more."

"Extraordinary. So, Arkay's lot have bitten off more than they can chew? Do they even know who they're fighting?"

"The Knights of the Rose received a plea from the Order of the Circle three days past," Castellian supplied, leaning back in his chair to allow a maid to pour tea. "They've uncovered some sort of unpleasantness. There have been rumours of a secret sect meeting in the mountains close to Ankhora – some profane magical gathering, I believe. In any case, the citizens are getting jumpy. The Order want to pinpoint their hideout and make a rout; unfortunately, their numbers are rather too few for such a grand gesture."

"And so they thought they'd pull the Roses into it?" Eadwyre frowned. "I don't like that at all. We've got pirates buzzing around Balfiera like flies, and that damn Orcish 'politician' hammering down my door on the northern borders. Why this Gortwog character thinks he'll ever get Imperial approval for the annexation of Orsinium is a mystery to me. Can't Camoran sort this one out? It _is_ Hammerfell, after all, and Sentinel's had its eye on the Dragontails for the last ten years."

"Unfortunately, your Majesty, this concerns Wayrest too. The Watch has been investigating various rumours of suspicious gatherings, and they tally not only with Ankhora's reports, but Sentinel's also. We think they meet in smaller groups, but the main centre is in the Dragontails." He frowned. "King Camoran has refused to send in the cavalry. He's keeping his cards to his chest. If you ask me, he wants his troops right where they are in case King Lysandus snaps and sends the navy over. They're at daggers drawn."

Eadwyre sighed like a wearied father chastising a pair of miscreant children. "Like two toddlers arguing over sweets," he said in exasperation. "These land disputes are getting ridiculous. Mark my words; there'll be war within the year."

"And by Stendarr's grace, Wayrest will be well out of it when it comes," said Castellian dryly. "Though I hope your estimate is inaccurate, your Majesty. It would hardly do for the Roses to be off chasing Necromancers in the Dragontails if the Bay is on the brink of a naval clash."

Morgiah had been drifting; her sleep had been disturbed since she began her nocturnal truancy, and the conversation was not interesting enough to keep her attention. The word 'Necromancers', however, seemed to shortcut through her brain and set her nerves jangling.

"Necromancers?" she inquired sharply before she could stop herself. "You're ambushing a Necromantic sect?"

Castellian looked surprised by her input. "I do not rightly know, your Highness. The Order of the Circle did not name them as such, but if the sect are renegade magic practitioners, it's a reasonable assumption to make."

"But surely there are any number of possibilities that fit such a description," she continued, her mind racing. Apart from the name _Scourg Barrow,_ no-one at the King of Worms' meetings had dropped any clues as to where the place was located. Could it be…? "I understand that the Dragontails are rather renowned for harbouring undesirables – vampire clans, for instance."

"True, your Highness," Castellian conceded. "There are several vampire clans that have been troublesome to the area. It seems a little overzealous for the Circle to pit themselves against such an adversary, however…"

"As I see it," Morgiah continued for him, a wild plan forming in her mind, "the followers of Arkay are inherently opposed to any unnatural perversion of what their god holds sacred – the cycle of life and death. The existence of vampires is definitely what I would call an unnatural perversion. If they are planning an heroic coup, would they do it for anything less than a direst breach of Arkay's ideals?"

"Such as raising the dead by Necromancy?" Helseth said with dripping sarcasm, joining the conversation at last.

She didn't rise. "Such as vampirism."

"You have given me something to consider, by all means, your Highness," Castellian said courteously to Morgiah. "The group which the Circle have identified may well be vampiric. Have no fear, Princess; if rumours of these undesirables in the Dragontails have distressed you, I assure you that I and the Roses will see them taken care of."

"Your gallantry does you credit, Sir," Morgiah said rather stiffly, throwing a sideways glare at her brother, whose eyebrows were raised.

Elysana had been watching the exchange coolly, toying with the cup of pressed pear juice before her. As Morgiah watched incredulously, she arranged her features into an expression of wide-eyed sweetness, addressing Castellian in a hushed, breathy tone. "Oh, your Lordship – how horrid to be among such monsters! And how brave of you to risk your life to make sure the people of the Dragontails are safe! Do be careful, won't you? It would be so unbearable should you be hurt."

Castellian looked taken aback and enormously touched; he smiled indulgently at the small girl. "Your young Highness' concern is the sweetest I have yet received. Worry not, little one – I am more than a match for a vampire!" He turned to Eadwyre, who was looking on in amusement. "Your Majesty, your daughter is a delight. You must have her sit with us more often."

"Oh, Elysana is showing more interest in court by the day, my dear boy, you needn't worry about that!" Eadwyre's laughter boomed across the hall. "She'll be the darling of the Palace in no time at all – as if she wasn't already!" He stroked his daughter's hair lovingly; Elysana smiled back up at him, the picture of serenity.

Morgiah almost snorted, through disbelief rather than humour. As she glanced up at her brother, they shared one of those fleeting moments of companionship that had become so rare over the years. Helseth rolled his eyes. Morgiah suppressed a laugh.

Later though, in the sanctum of the library, the situation returned to her mind as she contemplated the seriousness of Castellian's campaign. What she needed to discover – and quickly – was if Scourg Barrow really _was_ in the Dragontail Mountains, and if so, whether they were indeed the same 'renegade magic practitioners' the knights were targeting. She had to admit, with the Watch's report of suspicious night-time gatherings, the evidence was persuasive.

If her deductions were correct, she would have to do some quick thinking to pave the way for doubt. It was not out of ignorance that she had brought up the subject of vampires. She had overheard several conversations in the King of Worms' Hall over the past few weeks concerning a particular clan that was creating trouble in the area. The Ary'thite, a relatively new clan with roots in a nearby town, was becoming more pervasive – and with a bit of luck, they would make the perfect sacrificial lamb to deflect attention away from Scourg Barrow.

Now all she had to do was make sure the knights had unshakeable proof that their adversary was the Ary'thite, not Necromancers…

_Wait, wait.__** I**_ _have to make sure?_ This was becoming ridiculous. Karethys was on the road to recovery; if Morgiah was lucky, she would have one, maybe two more dates to gatecrash Scourg Barrow. Her current total hardly merited any obligation towards the Necromancers. Why on earth should she take such a risk? When had she become so _obsessed?_

Of course, she reassured herself, there were plenty of ordinary, sensible reasons to deflect the attack. Now she'd found the King's hideout, she was reluctant to relinquish the information. There was no telling when a secret like that might be useful in the future. And in any case, there were far less Ary'thite vampires than there were Necromancers – the battle would be won more easily, with less cost to the Wayrestians. Really, she'd be doing everyone a favour. Who could protest when bloodshed would be avoided? Lord Castellian might even end up owing his life to her.

She had the cloak and clasp. She could make use of them. She'd let the Watch follow her, and drop them a false trail.

By rights, she really ought to be feeling apprehensive. Unfortunately, all the idea of the danger did was excite her.

* * *

Morgiah slid along the brick wall of the alleyway between the two houses. The streetlamp shed a pool of light on the broad avenue before her, but for now she was shrouded in darkness. Two City Watch guards stood lazily by the ornamental fountain in the centre of the square.

She fingered the note in her pocket – roughly scribbled, it contained a short missive apparently addressed from one vampire to another, detailing both the violent intentions of their clan and the whereabouts of their hideout. The plan was simple; she would let the guards glimpse her, lead them on a dizzy chase _away_ from the veranda-house, drop the note where they could see, and Recall before they could catch her. She had set a mark in her own study earlier that evening. Simple plan, simple repercussions.

She took a deep breath, and stepped out of the alleyway into the lamplight.

The guards turned to look, their expressions bored; of course, a cloaked figure was not necessarily suspicious as and in itself. But she had prepared the bait – she started as if shocked and afraid, let out a low hiss, and turned to run.

The thing about guards is that if you run, no matter what you've done, they will chase you.

They chased her.

She fled through the dark alley, Karethys' cloak flapping behind her. The guards were human and both had at least ten years on her; she was by far the fastest. But she kept in sight, leading them through twists and turns, ignoring their shouts but being careful not to let them lose her. Her heart was beating with exhilaration; this was so _enjoyable_! The rebellion from stuffy Palace life thrilled her.

She flitted round the corner of a tall, half-timbered house, hearing the Watch behind, wheezing now from exertion. One of them suddenly gave a shout. "Hey! Wickwing, Kingcroft! Chase on!"

The additional pounding footsteps brought Morgiah up short; reinforcements. Time to leave. She dashed to the end of the alley, whirled around to see four figures charging towards her… dropped the note, and Recalled.

The walls of her study materialised around her, quiet and glowing in the light of the settling fire. She leant forward on the desk, panting, heart thumping.

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she felt the empty space in her pocket. _Like a charm._

* * *

**A/N: **Dedicated to Burnt Sierra, for his kind words and unending support :)


	16. Old Places And Old Faces

The King And I

Chapter Fourteen – Of Old Places And Old Faces

* * *

On an imposing crag that jutted more than a hundred feet from the flanking mountain, two shapes stood silhouetted against the westering sun. The sky was boiling with clouds; bruise purple above, underlit by a pale orange flare. The journey here had been uneventful, surprisingly enough. The badlands between Northpoint Bay and the Wrothgarian Mountains were not as treacherous as they had once been.

Bomba 'Lurrina surveyed the entrance to Shedungent meticulously, her crimson mane of hair whipping about her face. The wind was dry and stinging. It played around the massive locked gates of the fortress before her, revealing a faint luminescence that seemed to tinge the ironwork with sickly green.

"There has been sorcery here," she pronounced, eyeing the structure suspiciously. "A sealing spell has been placed on the doors, one far greater than my skill to break or bend. And yet… this does not feel like Nulfaga's magic. Her style was very different."

Nenya finished her circuit of the walls. "Can't see a thing," she said cheerfully. "You magic types must have eyes like hawks. Looks like an ordinary door to me."

"If we could find a way inside, I'm sure even _you_ couldn't miss it," Bomba said wryly. "Nulfaga lives more in Aetherius than Nirn these days, and magic has a habit of seeping through."

"Well, magic eyes I don't have, but tracker's eyes I do. There's not a crack in the stone all the way round; no way in. But people have been here." Nenya looked at Bomba 'Lurrina hopefully; the Khajiit had the impression of an exuberant puppy angling for approval.

"Well done," she said warmly, trying to sound encouraging. "Where, exactly?"

Nenya grinned and lead her further towards the doorway. "See here? The dirt is all scuffed up around this sally port. People have been coming and going fairly often. Is Nulfaga in the habit of taking trips in the real world, as well as on the metaphysical plane?"

Bomba frowned. "She used to leave the castle on rare occasions, but I imagine those have become even scarcer in the last few years. Who, then, are her frequent visitors? There's something about this place…" She turned her nose to the wind, sniffing delicately. Her brow furrowed, and then it came to her: this dusty threshold had the same quality of air as the abandoned dais of Vivec.

"There is a link between here and the High Fane Temple," she told her companion, voicing her thoughts. "Something about the two places remind me of each other. If only I could tell what it was!"

"Well, you said a window to Aetherius had been opened in the Palace," Nenya said reasonably. "If that's all Nulfaga's been doing in Shedungent since the turn of the century, it makes sense that there would be similarities."

"True, but something makes me think that we're only getting half the story. I think we should watch the gates for a while."

Nenya sighed, clumping towards a nearby patch of briars. "Another night of mud and wind? Just what I fancied, as it happens!"

Bomba 'Lurrina felt the beginnings of a smile; she took an affectionate swipe at the Nord. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I'll even give you my share of the travel-biscuit."

"Oh, goody," said Nenya.

* * *

It had become extremely dark on Shedungent's craggy perch, the only illumination being the faint, oily hue of the locking-spell on the massive gateway.

Bomba 'Lurrina was on watch. Nenya had fallen asleep almost immediately, but even she couldn't snore her way through the whole night – the wind had become more and more persistent, and she had finally woken up a few minutes ago. Bomba had to admit that her plan wasn't turning out to be a very comfortable one.

She shivered slightly, feeling her joints protest at the hard ground. "Getting old," she muttered.

Nenya looked concerned; she took off her blanket and draped it round the Khajiit with surprising tenderness. "Better? Us Nords are used to cold and wind."

"Oh, no," Bomba protested, trying to push the blanket away. "Treat me like a crone, will you? I've had worse than a night in the wild!"

"Don't be an ass," Nenya said readily, thrusting it back. "It's no-"

"Look," hissed Bomba suddenly, ceasing the blanket-battle and focusing on dusty track leading past their hiding place.

A solitary figure was winding its way up the crag's jagged edges, pausing now and then to shift the package over its shoulder. It wore a black robe, plain and nondescript, obscuring the majority of its face.

As the shape approached the main doors, the glowing residue from the binding-spell flickered slightly, bowing out around the sally port. At a muttered word from the dark stranger, the small entryway creaked open, closing swiftly as soon as the speaker stepped inside.

Immediately Bomba 'Lurrina was on her feet, aches and pains forgotten, slipping like a shadow to the doors. Nenya rather sensibly decided not to follow, aware that stealth is best left to the professionals. She waited instead while the barely-visible shape of her companion scoured the entryway, inclining her expressive tapering ears to the crack in the doors in hope of something worth overhearing.

After a few minutes she returned, shaking her head.

"I heard voices," she whispered. "Indistinct, but there are definitely more people in there. And there was something else… something wailing. Like a child, but the voice was old." She looked troubled. "I fear that Nulfaga may be trapped here. Whoever these black-robed people are, their reappearance is no coincidence. Morgiah has already had reports of them in both Mournhold and Vivec."

"I'd bet a whole flagon of Blackbriar's finest they were in the High Fane the night Vivec went missing," Nenya said.

"I wouldn't bet against you, either," Bomba said grimly, gathering their belongings. "It's all beginning to add up, isn't it? Just as well we made this journey. Nulfaga's vulnerability has always weighed on my mind, but if these people are manipulating her…" she shook her head. "Nulfaga is unstable, and her magic is deep and old. Aetherius is nothing to trifle with. I shudder to think of her knowledge falling into the wrong hands."

"Something really big is happening, isn't it?" Nenya said, her characteristic geniality suddenly evaporating, making Bomba 'Lurrina feel strangely cold. "This is too well-organised."

"Yes. It all smacks of a long-term, well-laid plan. And that makes me wonder exactly what is at stake here." She finished bundling up her belongings, slinging them neatly onto her back. "We need to get back on the road. I'm more keen than ever to talk to Gortwog. His spies throughout the nation could rival even Barenziah's assembled ranks."

Nenya followed suit, heaving her own pack into place as the pair disappeared into darkness.

* * *

A lot of things go on at Tel Fyr these days.

The current inhabitants, the Abandoned Dreamers and Sixth House Cultists, are not idle. Red Mountain may be the heart of the operation, but Tel Fyr, is, shall we say… the _administrative _centre.

The Corprusarium is deserted now, cleared of its unfortunate inhabitants. The cultists prefer not to venture down there; though Corprus is not transferred via atmosphere and there is little danger of contamination in the relics of the Patients' former home, they avoid it nonetheless. They are superstitious, and though they have mercilessly put Fyr's diseased collection to work in the Facility Cavern, the sickness itself is still recognised as the work of the Divine. The Corprusarium is treated with wary respect, like a shrine or sanctum, somewhere mortal feet are reluctant to tread.

The real activity goes on in the upper towers, in what used to be Fyr's laboratory.

There are few alchemists among the Dreamers, and their treatment of Fyr's Elixir is hesitant. His notes are complicated, and to the untrained eye, undecipherable. Through rumour, the Dreamers know the basics of the project; they know Fyr had previously created a cure for one _already_ inflicted with Corprus… but this concoction was intended to actually _infect_ a drinker with the diease. Or rather, an optimised version – all the good traits, none of the bad.

One of their number had taken the Elixir two months ago, a necessity in order to facilite Fyr's 'disappearance'. He had since risen to a position of command – a Master, as it were. It was only natural, he reasoned. He had superior qualities now. He was strong and fast. He was immune to age and disease.

He was reluctant to allow any of his fellows the same liberty. His rationale was the obvious danger of mass imbibement – his own transformation was in its early stages, and they did not know what side effects the Elixir might produce. Better that he be a test subject, and if all was well in a month, they could share the formula out.

Perhaps in a month, he would be even stronger. He could be Helseth's right-hand man, and as for the others… well, their place was in servitude. He would never abandon his brothers and sisters voluntarily, of course, but he had the Divine in him now. It was natural that he should be of a higher order. This blessing could not be cobbled out to all and sundry.

He thought of King Helseth and the plan they had formed together, even now growing to fruition.

Perhaps by its completion, he would be right-hand man not to a king, but to an emperor.

* * *

The trail to Orsinium had changed beyond recognition in the years since the Warp.

Since the annexation of the state and the Emperor's acknowledgement of Gortwog's sovereignty, the Orcs had wasted no time in the restoration of their home. Orsinium's territory had spread to include much of the Wrothgarian Mountains, and the increase in wealth from the encompassed farms and smallholdings was evident. Nenya and Bomba 'Lurrina had been travelling on a wide, well-paved road for some time now.

The land was tamed and the road even grander as they closed the gap to Orsinium's gates. It was late and dark, but they could see the winking points of light that marked the beginning of street-lamps on the last stretch before the city wall.

In fact, Bomba 'Lurrina was so distracted by the obvious wealth and care of the landscape that she was lulled into a false sense of security, and therefore wasn't prepared when a pack of goblins leapt out from the verge, utterly without warning.

_A raiding party!_ It seemed Orsinium was not so safe after all. Her muscles suddenly flaring into action, she sprang backwards, hoping to shock them… but they were too quick, and had the advantage of numbers as well as surprise.

The Khajiit let out a cry as a gaggle of shapes swarmed over her, barely managing to pitch herself backwards to avoid a dirty blade aimed at her throat. Fumbling for her katana, she scrambled towards the verge, hampered by her clumsy pack – she swung round, taking a deep breath to scream a warning to Nenya –

– who wasn't following her as she had been a moment ago. Somehow, she had already got behind the pack, and was lowering the ebony helmet over her eyes…

The dwemer warhammer sang out like a shooting star. The first goblin tumbled fifteen yards down the road, skull crushed like an egg.

Bomba 'Lurrina stared, paralysed with shock, as this towering inferno of indoril and ebony that had only a moment ago been Nenya laid waste to the pack. In five minutes, the devastation was total. Not a single goblin was left alive.

The thing that had been Nenya lowered the massive blood-spattered hammer slowly, her arm poised like a dancer's, so appallingly unlike the Nord Bomba had come to know that her breath choked in her throat. She took a step forward, strength and grace in her every move –

– and removed the helmet. Scruffy pigtails fell out around her face; a face that was, blissfully, Nenya. A little tired-looking, perhaps, but with the same expression of good-naturedness she always had.

She wiped the hammer clumsily on the grass and strapped it back onto its harness, her movements showing their usual ungainliness. Clumping over to where Bomba lay, she reached down a hand. "Are you ok? Hoarfather's Beard, I thought you were a goner when they swarmed you. I didn't expect anything like that so close to the city."

Bomba submitted to being helped to her feet, still too shocked to form a proper sentence. She had always wondered how this cheerful, amiable blonde creature could possibly be the kind of war-leader the Dunmer hailed as their Nerevarine. Now she had some idea.

"That," she said, pointing towards the ebony helmet as if it were a dangerous animal. "What in the name of the Moons _is_ _that thing?"_

Nenya looked uneasy. "I got it in one of the Sixth House bases a few years ago. My old one was in terrible shape, and I thought, why waste it? I'm good with heavy armour. It seemed to help a lot with clearing out Red Mountain. I mean, I'm a good fighter, but I'm not invincible."

Bomba massaged her temples, feeling as if she was finally understanding some of the things that had bothered her since her meeting with the Nord. "Nenya, do you know _anything_ about magic? Didn't you suspect that something might be amiss?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I am not an idiot," Nenya said smoothly, for one moment looking more like the apparition that had laid waste to the goblins. "Of course I realised it must be magical. I also knew that while I was doing a pretty good job as the Nerevarine, I needed all the help I could get. The helmet isn't as bad as you think it is – at least not magically. There were other things I needed to make me into what the Dunmer were expecting."

Bomba began to see. In fact, she herself had touched on the meaning of it, back on the ship when she had mused that Nenya seemed to be able to cope with the world much better when she was armoured up to the nines. The helmet might have some magical potency, but the real power lay in its psychological effect. The fact that Nenya had been astute enough to recognise and use this made Bomba suspect she was cleverer than she seemed. _Much_ cleverer.

Thank Stendarr Nenya preferred warhammers to blades, she thought wryly; Stendarr knew what pairing Trueflame with her existing enchanted arsenal would have done to her.

She looked upset now, though. Another flash of intuition came to Bomba 'Lurrina: she didn't like people witnessing the kind of thing that had just happened. It made them think differently of her. And with good reason.

It was hard, though, not to feel affection for that hangdog expression.

"Come on," she said kindly, reaching up to tweak the younger (but annoyingly, far taller) woman's pigtail. "Let's get going. Thank you for rescuing me."

Nenya's face lit up with almost comical relief. "I'm sorry if I scared you," she said earnestly.

Bomba laughed out loud. "My dear girl, I have seen _far_ scarier things than a Nord with a personality problem."

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you again for the comments and encouragement! **Bhen**, as always, you are wonderful x **Will** and **Josh** - thank you very much for reading, and I assure you, I am determined to finish this beast of a fic! It's becoming more achievable by the day, too - I had the ending all written out four years ago, but now finally the middle is starting to come together. The middle is always the hardest part of any story.

I can't tell you how nostalgic I felt writing this chapter (and the chapters to come) with Nenya and Bomba - Daggerfall is a huge part of my childhood, and walking the Iliac Bay again has been an incredibly enjoyable experience. Rest assured there will be more Daggerfall-inspired hijinks ahead. Yay! Hijinks for all! xx


	17. The Betmeri Question

The King And I

Chapter Fifteen – The Betmeri Question

* * *

Orsinium Castle loomed above, massive in the moonlight. The outside was constructed solely of panelled metallic facing, a task of both physical and engineering triumph. The Orcs had no-one in Tamriel to rival them in smithing and metalwork.

Two guards flanked the main gateway, looking much more alert and professional than the half-hearted dozers that Bomba 'Lurrina was used to from Daggerfall. As she and Nenya approached, they crossed their spears over the doorway.

"Your business, strangers?" The left guard asked.

"We have a request for an audience with the King," Bomba answered smoothly. "May we wait inside?"

"Come with me," the first said, unlocking the door and pointing them through.

He left them in an antechamber while he fetched a superior. Nenya sat in a carven high-backed chair, looking around with interest. "They do themselves well, don't they Bom?"

Bomba overlooked the endearment. A nickname like that would usually have her claws out quicker than a wink, but for some reason it didn't bother her with Nenya. It was sweet, even. "I think they deserve a few extravagances, considering what they've had to put up with. Anyway, Gortwog's brought a lot of money into this province. I'm not surprised things look as lavish as they do."

"It's probably what attracts the goblin raiders," Nenya said sourly.

"Goblin raiders?" asked a new voice behind them; a pleasant, gravelly voice. "You have not had trouble on your way, I hope?"

They turned to see another Orc entering the anteroom, a tall and strongly-built youth dressed in much finer-wrought armour than the guards. He bowed. Bomba returned the gesture gracefully; Nenya rather less so.

"We happened to run into a pack roughly a mile from the gate, but luckily my companion was more than a match for them," Bomba replied with a subtle approving glance at the newcomer's physique. "Raiding parties are still such a problem this close to the Wrothgarians." She held out her hand. "We would like to request an audience with the King. My name is Bomba 'Lurrina."

The Orc's smile widened. "I thought as much when the guard said our visitor was Khajiiti. My lady, do you not recognise me?"

Bomba raised her eyebrows, her own mouth curving upwards. "I am quite sure I would have remembered such a meeting, sir."

"A clue, then," the Orc said, a spark of mischief in his bronze eyes. "The last time you saw me, I was two thirds my present height, standing behind the throne of King Gortwog as he received his state visit from the Emperor. Are you now enlightened?"

Bomba let out a sudden laugh of pleasure. "By the Moons… your Highness will make me feel old. My dear Jezáhk, it is a delight to see you again! How you have changed… can you forgive my display of ignorance?"

"Quite willingly, I assure you," the Orc said, kissing Bomba's hand. "And the delight is mine. I must ask you, though, not to extort from this poor prince the compliments your disparagement demands. I am so uneducated when it comes to gentle speech. Allow me to say, though, that whatever years you own make no mark upon your beauty."

"I think we must have wildly different definitions of 'uneducated', your Highness," Bomba replied rather breathlessly.

"And who is your companion, may I ask?"

Bomba 'Lurrina looked around. Nenya had been examining the elaborate wall-hangings during this exchange, seemingly oblivious to their conversation. The Khajiit had a moment of comic insight as she was struck by the differences between them – she couldn't imagine Nenya participating in the kind of flirtatious banter she had just engaged in so casually with Jezáhk. She had the distinct impression that Nenya trying to flirt would have all the finesse and subtlety of a brick to the head.

"Your Highness Jezáhk, may I present Nenya, the Nerevarine? Nenya, this is King Gortwog's son."

"It is a pleasure, my lady," Jezáhk said courteously, kissing her hand as he had done Bomba 'Lurrina's.

"Alright?" greeted Nenya affably, confirming Bomba's expectations with blissful ignorance.

Jezáhk, to his credit, took her unexpectedly familiarity in his stride. "My father would not normally take visitors at this hour, but of course, you are always welcome," He lead them back through the entrance and towards the inner rooms. "Would you care for refreshment? I will call for some wine."

"You are too kind," Bomba purred. "We have had a long journey."

He halted before a set of extravagantly carved doors, knocked once, and showed them through.

The room was spare, but elegantly decorated. In a chair before the roaring fire sat an Orc as tall and powerfully built as his son, the only acknowledgement of age being the streak of white in his braided scalplock. He got to his feet, an imposing figure in the firelight.

"Lady Bomba 'Lurrina," he said, his voice surprisingly melodic and refined in comparison to his daunting image. "An unexpected joy. Please, sit. Your companion also."

"Your hospitality is impeccable as always, your Majesty," Bomba said, settling into one of the fireside chairs. "And I see your son has become the very image of his father's courtesy and charm."

Gortwog laughed. "I am afraid he has developed something of a hero-worship of you in your absence. I must ask you to forgive his liberties."

"I could not possibly forgive what gave no offence," Bomba protested, a smirk of gratification not quite hidden on her face.

"But tell me," Gortwog continued, showing Nenya to a chair and fetching some crystalware from the sideboard, "to what do I owe this pleasure? The lateness of the hour causes me to think that your business here is more than a simple courtesy call." He poured three glasses of deep golden wine from a silver flagon.

"It's true that we are pushed for time," admitted Bomba, accepting a glass with a murmur of thanks. "We still have many miles to cover until we reach our next destination. There are, shall we say, some _mysterious_ things happening over in Morrowind, and I knew the best place to go for information would be here."

Gortwog frowned, confused. "My lady, you give me too much credit – I know little of the Dunmer nation. I hope your journey here will not have been wasted."

"I am quite sure that will not be the case. You see, though the centre of this unrest seems to be in Morrowind, through further investigation we have realised that there are a lot of connections to certain parties in High Rock."

Gortwog lifted an eyebrow., a faint trace of amusement in his eyes "I hope you are not here for a criminal questioning, Bomba!"

Bomba laughed. "I wouldn't dare. No, I simply wanted the benefit of your eyes and ears in the provinces. I need to know what has been happening in the Illiac Bay in the last six months – what has _really_ been happening. There is a strange link between Wayrest and these troubles in Morrowind."

Gortwog nodded slowly, tapping his fingers on the table. "Morrowind and Wayrest, eh? There's one very obvious link I can see there… the royal family."

"I have always found it gratifying how you cut immediately to the heart of the matter, your Majesty," Bomba said, satisfied. "Yes, I believe that is part of the connection I speak of." She furrowed her brow. "Truthfully, I'm out of the loop, Gortwog. I need to know what's been going on in Wayrest."

"I have an alliance with Queen Elysana now, would you believe. It has turned out to be hugely profitable. I must say, she is a formidable woman. She has 'empire' written all over her. Wayrest's lands have tripled over the last decade."

"Much like your own," Bomba observed.

"Ah, yes. The years have been good to me!" Gortwog let out a laugh. "Orsinium is fast becoming respectable; such an agreeable turn of events. But back to your question – as I remember, you were holed up in Daggerfall when Helseth and Elysana's squabble broke out?"

"The culmination of it, yes. I never did hear your opinion on the matter."

"Well, I don't know if this will be of much use to you; you're close about your purpose, as always. But I can tell you that Helseth was mad as a hornet to be ousted by Elysana. There could hardly be anyone each of them hate more than the other."

"No surprise there," muttered Nenya, making her first contribution.

"Quite so, Lady Nerevarine," Gortwog conceded. "And–"

"Oh, just Nenya thanks, I'm not really much for all the pomp and circumstance," Nenya said cheerfully.

Gortwog did a double take, but recovered with admirable speed. "Your wish is my command, Nenya. To continue: if you ask me, Helseth will not have forgotten his humiliation at the hands of Elysana. She all but drove him out, you see. She used her charm on the courts like I've never seen before – what Wayrestian would have a dour, bitter little Dark Elf when they could have a sweet and amiable Breton princess? It added insult to injury. And those Hlaalu royals hold a grudge for a lifetime."

"Oh, I don't know," Bomba said mildly. "Barenziah seemed quite gracious in forgetting the business with you and her biography, after all."

Gortwog slapped his leg. "Do you know, my dear, I had quite forgotten that! I was, perhaps, a little less _professional _in those days. I apologise; I exclude Barenziah from my judgement. But not Helseth, I think you will agree."

Bomba cocked her head. "And what of the third child? Morgiah?"

"Ah," said Gortwog slowly, his expression pensive. "It's funny how everyone forgets about her, isn't it? A most elusive lady. I must confess, I know little of her. She married Firsthold's king, didn't she? A curiously rapid wedding for two such high-ranking royals. I never did keep up with what happened – didn't he die recently? Does she rule in his stead?"

"She does not," Bomba answered. "She has returned to Morrowind."

Gortwog looked like a child who has just been offered a juicy treat. "Has she indeed? Not another throne-battle on the horizon for Helseth, is there?"

"I do not believe so, your Majesty."

Gortwog shrugged philosophically. "Probably wise. I have dealt with Helseth once before, and even the simple nature of _that_ request was enough for my liking. I am sure I would not like to oppose him in anything so serious as a race for the crown."

Bomba frowned, suddenly on the alert. "You had dealings with Helseth? I did not know of this."

"You cannot expect to know everything, my lady. In any case, as I said, the request was so simple as to be trivial."

"Will you suffer me to ask its nature?"

Gortwog raised an eyebrow. "I have been very free with you so far, my lady. Do you plan to fleece me of this information with no return? What, exactly, is this worth?"

"I believe it is worth far less than my prior-given vote of confidence on your behalf to the Emperor," Bomba replied smoothly.

Gortwog conceded good-naturedly, sitting back in his chair. "Of course, you are correct. And many thanks once again. So; I received a visit from one of Helseth's agents about six months after his retreat to Mournhold. Apparently, he was doing the rounds of all the major players in the mess of 3E 410 – which, no doubt, you remember a little of?"

"Bits and pieces," Bomba confirmed with withering sarcasm.

"Quite so," Gortwog grinned with the same mischievous glint in his eye as his son. "Well, this agent wanted to look through my records. I have amassed a fairly extensive collection on numerous subjects since I settled in Orsinium."

"What was he looking for?" Bomba asked, unable to keep the curiosity from her voice.

"Information about Numidium," Gortwog said. "He also seemed very keen to hear what I knew about the Mantellan Crux and how it was created. I saw no reason to refuse, especially at the price he was offering. I gave him a contact on Dwemer architecture by the name of Tulius Cicero, let him paw through my few texts on the subject, and forgot all about him until now. I was not particularly keen to strike up any animosity with Helseth by offending his employees."

Bomba's mind raced. "I see," she said. Numidium? Why on earth would Helseth be scouring the whole Iliac Bay for information on Numidium? "Thank you. That is most interesting."

Gortwog took a draught from his glass. "I hope you are not going to rush off now you have picked me dry. At least stay the night as my guests. We will beak our fast together before you gallivant off into the unknown again, my lady."

"I am honoured, and we happily accept," Bomba said as they got to their feet and headed towards the door. "I am thrilled to see what you have done with the Castle since my last visit. Your Majesty has impeccable taste."

"You are too kind, my dear," Gortwog bowed, holding the door open for them.

"Maybe if you butter him up just a _little_ more, he'll put you in a room next to Jezáhk," Nenya whispered dryly.

She was rubbing her ribs from the consequent elbow-attack all the way down the hall.

* * *

The city of Sadrith Mora sprawls like a living thing over the scattered islands of the Azura Coast region. The organic towers of the Telvanni here are the most impressive examples of their kind on Vvardenfell; the Council Chambers alone are a maze for the unwary, and impossible to traverse by all but those skilled in magic.

By comparison, Wolverine Hall looks something of a forlorn outcast. This Imperial structure is dwarfed by the alien grandeur of the neighbouring city; whereas the Hall might have looked striking next to a settlement such as Caldera, here it gave the distinct impression of a cowed child sulking next to its older and more worldly-wise sibling.

Two small silhouettes emerged from the Hall's ground-floor entrance, presenting much the same image as the building that hulked above them. Eadwyrd shivered, pulling his plain grey cloak tighter. The air was damp.

"Welcoming place, isn't it?"

Gwynabyth hugged her arms to her chest. "We're going to stick out like a sore thumb here. I never saw such an unfriendly place. Hospitality papers for foreigners before they can even enter the town? We won't last five minutes; I don't know what Morgiah was thinking."

"You've got to admit, it's flattering that she was so impressed by our alchemy skills that she didn't want to send anyone else," Eadwyrd admitted.

"Maybe," Gwynabyth said uneasily, "but I don't really like this, all the same. I hope this agent of hers is good. If they can just smuggle us into Tel Fyr, then that's fine – we can always use the scrolls if it looks like someone's rumbled us. It's actually getting inside to begin with that worries me."

"Well, don't worry about it until we're closer. We've got to find the agent first."

The short walk along the coast to the Gateway Inn was a cool, drizzly affair. Spring was taking its time here. The still water of the Sea of Ghosts was beautifully clear, but extremely cold.

In contrast, the Gateway Inn was far pleasanter than they had expected. The place was a cheerful bustle of traders and travellers meeting contacts and waiting for hospitality authorisation. The two Bretons ordered spiced mazte and sat at a corner table in the main tavern area, feeling a little less out of place.

"At least we look like we're supposed to," Eadwyrd whispered. "Ignorant, naïve, green-as-grass tourists. No-one could fault us for our cover."

Gwynabyth giggled.

A tall, impassive-looking Dunmer woman occupied the table next to theirs, reclining languidly until she was within earshot. "I saw one of those mud-crabs yesterday," she said conversationally. "They're getting more numerous every year."

Gwynabyth shot Eadwyrd a look. He replied with the words Morgiah had given them, feeling rather stupid. "I can't stand those vile creatures."

The woman turned to face them fully, one carefully-shaped eyebrow raised. "Really? I mean, _really?"_ It was quite clear she wasn't referring to mudcrabs.

Gwynabyth looked annoyed. "Look, we didn't exactly sign up for this. We thought we were just going to be giving advice. Identifying potions and things."

The woman shook her head wryly. "Well, I suppose you'll have to do." She extended a hand; they both shook it guardedly. "Dralasa Llethi. I'm going to be your guide. If you're lucky, you'll get to see a few sights that only a handful of people could boast to."

"If we're lucky? If we were _lucky,_ we'd be a hundred miles away," grumbled Eadwyrd.

Gwynabyth gave him a light slap on the arm, unable to stop a fond smile before she turned to the agent. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Llethi. I'm Gwynabyth Yeomham, and this is Eadwyrd Greenhart. We're told you need the expertise of an alchemist. Fortunately, you got two for one."

"So I see," said Dralasa dryly. "I hope you prove twice as useful. I've acquired a small fishing boat for the trip; we ought to leave as soon as you are ready."

Eadwyrd and Gwynabyth looked at eachother. The fair-haired man shrugged and downed the last of his mazte. "Well, at least we get a boat. I was worried we'd have to swim, the way things are looking."

"You're lucky I don't make you anyway. You look like you could do with hardening up," Dralasa said disdainfully.

"Oh, _great,"_ Eadwyrd muttered to Gwynabyth as they followed the Dunmer out of the bar. "A drillmistress."

"Let's not make this any more complicated than it has to be," Gwynabyth replied fervently. "Just get in, identify whatever this elixir thing is, and get out. We could be done in a day."

"Don't be silly," Eadwyrd said in a passable imitation of Dralasa. "That would make things _simple."_

Gwynabyth stifled a laugh as they stepped back outside into the misty rain.

* * *

**A/N: **Gortwog is actually one of my all-time favourite characters in the ES series. He is so gorgeously complex, and bucks so many established fantasy trends, that I immediatley knew he had to be involved in any Daggerfall-related story I might write. If, in my original Daggerfall game, Bomba had been obliged to choose one of the powers of the Bay to give the Totem... it would have been him. Although I prefer the idea of him using his political finesse rather than brute force to forge his nation.


	18. Interlude 7 An Academic Acquaintance

The King And I

Chapter Sixteen – Interlude Seven; How An Academic Acquaintance Was Made

* * *

_Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Sun's Dawn 3E 400. It is 29 years before the present day. Elysana is 11._

* * *

The upper gallery of Wayrest Palace was dark, but the lamps threw splashes of light across the gilt and velvet.

Lord Castellian made his way across the mezzanine with a deceptively strong pace. In reality, his left ankle was weakened by a crippling sprain, and his arm bore the telltale bandages of a recent patch-up job. Thankfully, the wound had been made by a knife, not the teeth of an Ary'thite vampire – although it had been a near thing. At least three of his fellow Knights were now six feet under the earth of the Dragontails, hearts carefully staked and heads carefully severed. People didn't take chances in Ary'thite territory. The images were clear and lingering.

He stopped for a moment, the pains of his body taking advantage of the brief respite to flare up. He had searched for glory in joining the Knights of the Rose, but what he had seen in Ankhora was not glory. At least the coup had been relatively quick, the entire trip over in just a few bloody days. Funny, he mused dully, how the Princess Morgiah had been the one to put them on the right track. If not for her insight, they might still be there, spending weeks searching for their mark…

His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a vision in robins-egg-blue chiffon, curls gleaming in the light of the lamps. "Lord Castellian? Oh, but you are safe!"

Little Princess Elysana, flanked by a candle-bearing maid. Her long-lashed eyes were wide with sweetness.

"I _did_ worry so when you told us of your awful mission! You were not hurt?"

Castellian could not help but smile; the girl was so charming, and every day growing courtlier. "My wounds are superficial, your Highness," he assured, bowing to the best of his ability. "They would be far worse without the valour of my esteemed colleagues."

Elysana beamed. "You are so gallant. Are you to come to supper? It is so dull with the Queen's miserable children. Have you ever seen them smile? I shall need you as my saviour."

Her cutting words momentarily took him aback, but her face was so endearingly capricious that he couldn't think she meant any harm. After all, he thought as he quashed the niggling sting of disloyalty, the Dunmer children _were_ rather dour. Elysana was what a princess _should_ be – all smiles and pretty dresses and sweet speech.

"I am indeed, your Highness," he replied kindly. "I have the honour of an invite from your lord father. Will you accompany me? I am sure it would please him." He angled his arm.

"Oh, I think so too," Elysana breathed, taking it gently. Her fingernails, he noticed, had been polished with pearldust to make them shimmer. "I think so too."

* * *

_Scourg Barrow, Hammerfell, Sun's Dawn 3E 400. It is 29 years before the present day. Morgiah is 24._

* * *

In the cavernous Great Hall of Scourg Barrow, two guards flanked the door that lead to the interview room.

The stream of representatives reporting to the King of Worms was usually fairly constant; he would speak to them for ten, perhaps fifteen minutes. If they had especially important news, it might be twenty or even thirty. In the last decade the number of his followers had leapt beyond all expectation, and between them they had a _lot_ of information. Time was precious.

The door had currently been shut for one hour and counting.

The guards were too well-trained to comment, though there was a slight exchange of looks somewhere around forty-five minutes in. It had been known for certain individuals to just… not come out. What happened to these individuals was, of course, not their place to enquire. And there had been an uproar in the last week, when it seemed as if the local knightly Orders were banding together to mark Scourg Barrow… until they diverted, and targeted the nearby Ary'thite vampire den instead.

They couldn't help thinking that the length of this interview had something to do with the near miss of the Order. Perhaps, a suspect… Stendarr's mercy, one could only imagine what had been happening to the poor soul inside…

The poor soul was, in fact, settled on a rather nicely cushioned divan before the fire. The room was extravagantly furnished; the taste in decoration was subtle, but expensive. Wine seemed to glow from within the cut crystal of the glass in front of her. It was undoubtedly an exquisite vintage.

Too bad it wasn't _her_ glass. She still couldn't risk being lightheaded in this particular viper's den. Morgiah crossed her legs, discreetly ensuring her hood revealed nothing from the mouth upwards. It wasn't the best idea to stay so long, but he hadn't asked her to leave yet, and she couldn't bring herself to prompt it. She'd cast a Mark in the Palace earlier that evening, but that was a last resort… casting a Recall without the standard practice of exiting to the gazebo chamber would give her away at once.

The King leant back in his carven chair, languid with grace, continuing their conversation. "It is certainly a blessing. I had wondered for a short while whether I would be forced to make a powerful enemy of the Order; interestingly, it was not so."

"'Interestingly', sire?"

"Yes. Interesting because another Agent, based in Ankhora, tells me that the Ary'thite Vampires were not the Order's original aim. They had been tracking this very Agent to the Ankhora meeting-house for a month. It was only at the last minute that they seemed to decide – rather inexplicably, in my view – to target the Ary'thite instead. You see, the idea for the change came not from within their own ranks, but their new reinforcements: Wayrest's Knights of the Rose."

She nodded slowly, sensing danger. Had he interviewed her fellow Wayrestians yet? What had they told him; what did they know? She would have to tread carefully. If only she could have seen his face! It was so impossible to read, that blank façade… He raised the glass of wine to the darkness in his hood, and not for the first time she wondered what was really there.

Time for disarmament; a bit of risk-taking, maybe. "I applaud their change of heart. Vampires are terribly… _done. _Corpses are so uncooperative when they start getting a mind of their own, don't you agree?"

The King paused, and for a moment she thought he would react to the insult – but then came the sound of his laughter, low and (like so much of him) disconcertingly pedestrian.

"Miss Drethan, you are a delight; the Wayrest Court must positively revel in you. Such a pity you did not come to me sooner. Enough of the attack – it is done, and we have come through unscathed. Tell me more of the Wayrest Court. How is dear Eadwyre these days? And his lady wife? Such a fascinating woman."

Morgiah felt a smile form under her hood; to hear her mother praised stirred an unexpected pride in her heart. "Barenziah is extraordinary, is she not? The King adores her. He would take the sun from the sky and thread it on a necklace to please her."

"How poetic. I would not have foreseen her settling in High Rock for all the jewels in Senchal, but after the fiasco of the Simulacrum, I don't blame her for putting an extra hundred leagues or so between herself and the Imperial City. I can't imagine the court is too happy with her."

Morgiah hesitated. She had still not managed to probe the mystery of what connection her mother had to the Jagar Tharn deception. "I am told so, yes… although why or how, I could not say."

The King cocked his head, the lights of his eyes flickering imperceptibly. "Naturally, it is not common knowledge. There should be no reason for you, a mere tutor, to be party to such information."

Morgiah opened her mouth, but said nothing. Something was not quite right about the casual nature of his voice.

"And you did not arrive until twoscore months had passed from Barenziah and Eadwyre's wedding, is that not correct? You wouldn't have seen their arrival, nor the coronation."

Now there really _was_ something threatening about this conversation. It was wrong. She was out of step.

"No indeed," she replied, wracking her abruptly blank memories. When _had_ Karethys come to court? Was he bluffing? Was she making a mistake? Her hand moved automatically to her hood, and unpleasant feeling of exposure creeping down her back. _Change the topic… disarm him, you stupid girl!_

She opened her mouth, but…

"_Stop."_

The quality of the air changed. Though there was no real indication from the deep shadow under the hood, all his concentration suddenly centred on her left hand, which rested temporarily frozen on the collar of her cape.

"Your clan-ring," he said, the chill shrewdness in his voice penetrating her body and freezing her spine.

Immediately Morgiah realised her mistake, and her breath failed in her throat. Karethys wore a clan-ring of House Dres, but Morgiah's hand was empty.

She was paralysed with fear. Run, screamed her mind, run… but she had a terrible feeling that running would be the most dangerous thing she could do.

It seemed like time stood still for that ghastly moment, but in reality not more than a second had passed before the King of Worms was upon her. Thrown back against the wall, her body taut, her arms seized with magical paralysis, she was fused to the wall and dazed with shock…

The King of Worms moved slowly towards her, holding her effortlessly by sheer power of will.

"So," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "My elusive benefactor."

The hood of her cloak had slipped back slightly. The lower half of her face was exposed to the light, revealed… she tried to say "How?" but her lips only moved soundlessly.

His full attention on her was like a brand. "WAS IT YOU," he echoed, the mental force of the interrogation making her body stagger and her mind spin.

"Did you think the deception would have gone unnoticed? A Wayrestian Agent gave the soldiers false information to target the Ary'thite Vampire clan, not Scourg Barrow. It was none of the others. It was evidently not Karethys Drethan, whom I do not believe I have spoken to for several months. _Was_ – _it_ – _you_?"

And then something happened to Morgiah. She stopped being afraid.

She could never quite pinpoint what had happened to cause this change. The heart-thumping fear was still _there_, but she found she could take it, fold it up neatly and tuck it away at the back of her mind. And when she stopped trying to resist the intensity of his power, she found that strangely enough it was less controlling. This, after all, was what she had wanted. An audience with the King of Worms. And she had got it.

"Yes," she said.

They stood facing eachother from across the room. She could feel him evaluating her, exploring… he released her now from her crippling stasis, but she wasn't interested in running any more.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I wanted to meet you," she said. "And the attack on Scourg Barrow, though I'm sure it wouldn't greatly tax on your abilities, would mean having to find you all over again. Not," she continued arrogantly, "that that would have presented an impossible challenge."

The powerful projections of his consciousness filled her mind – he was torn between what felt like curiosity, amusement, and something she hoped wasn't a whim to kill her on the spot.

"I cannot keep calling you Karethys," he murmured, slowly approaching her. If his expression were visible, would he be smirking? "And I must know who you are, or I am afraid I shall have to kill you. Elusive benefactor you may be, but it would be beyond foolish to release you with no way to track you."

She said nothing, but her mouth curved upwards, her hand almost invisibly crooking into a spellcasting gesture.

He stopped mere inches away. From this proximity she could see that the darkness under the hood was too impenetrable, the blue pinpoints of light too bright, to be natural. He lifted his gloved hands, and slowly (so slowly!) lowered her hood.

One could argue that the King of Worms, ancient and inconceivably complex creature that he is, must have seen too much of life to be truly surprised by anything the mortal world could offer. But then, not many living people have looked directly into those blue pinpoints of fire.

"Hlaalu Morgiah, Royal Princess of Wayrest, daughter to Barenziah and Symmachus," Morgiah said.

And in the split second his focus was elsewhere in his surprise, she cast the Recall spell and appeared, reeling, in the quiet moonlight of her Wayrest bedchamber.

And that was it. She could hardly believe she had gotten away with it.

In Scourg Barrow, the King cocked his head to one side, staring at the recently-occupied space before him. After a moment, he let out a low laugh and poured another glass of wine, before settling into the leather writing-chair and loading a new quill with ink.

Outside the door, the guards were silent. People disappeared in there sometimes. You didn't comment. It was just what happened.

* * *

_Excerpts from the archive of private correspondence and personal notes of Hlaalu Morgiah, Sun's Dawn 3E 400_

* * *

A letter:

_Destination: HRH Princess Morgiah of Wayrest, Royal Palace, Wayrest-ny-Bijoulsae, High Rock._

_Princess,_

_To my deep regret our previous encounter was cut short, due to an oversight on my part regarding the allowance of Mark/Recall spells in my interview-room._

_However there are matters which I should, with your permission, like to discuss – most significantly the debt of gratitude for the great service rendered to my Order by your Highness, the motive of which continues to intrigue me. Please find enclosed a beryl gem – I have no doubt that you will swiftly decipher its purpose given the correct study._

_Yours in salutation,_

_K o W_

A scribbled note:

_Gem; green. Shield charm cast; have no wish to end up a pile of ash. Incantation of identification. Complex, half an hour or more to identify – style of magicka use unfamiliar, archaic. Concluded gem to be imbued with specifically pinpointed constant Recall._

_He wants me to come back._

A letter:

_Destination: The King of Worms, Audience Chamber, Scourg Barrow, (Westernspine) Dragontail Mountains, Hammerfell._

_Sire,_

_I received and perused your letter with great interest. After the recommended study of your kindly-given gift, I believe to have discovered its use – a remarkable weave of spells, may I congratulate – and consequently feel that some discretion is in order. For instance, considering select remarks of yours during our prior engagement, I am not convinced that being transported into your presence and summarily confronted with designs on my mortality is the most prudent of measures. Please understand that such concern is a necessity of royal travel and not to be taken as a slight against your noble person._

_Yours in acknowledgement,_

_HRH Morgiah of Wayrest_

A letter:

_Destination: HRH Princess Morgiah of Wayrest, Royal Palace, Wayrest-ny-Bijoulsae, High Rock._

_Princess,_

_I humbly beg forgiveness for any indication that your Highness's health or honour has been compromised. Please allow me to offer full reassurance that should you accept my invitation, I and my household are committed to receiving you in the high standard of hospitality to which your royal person is accustomed._

_And__ if I wanted you dead, your country would already be in mourning._

_Yours in anticipation,_

_K o W_

* * *

_Scourg Barrow, Hammerfell, Sun's Dawn 3E 400. It is 29 years before the present day. Morgiah is 24._

* * *

The beryl-gem reacted the instant she spoke the catalyst word; her quiet study melted from around her, to be replaced in a second by an entirely different scene. A fire burnt in the grate, and a decanter of wine had been set out.

"So kind of you to come," said the King of Worms.

She felt uneasy at first without the meagre comfort of the obscuring hood, but she knew the very last thing she should do was show weakness. In a way, it was empowering to stand there revealed, as if she didn't need the protection of anonymity. He had invited her here. _She_ was patronising _him._

"Not at all," she replied lightly, perching on the chair he pulled out for her. "It is most pleasant to visit your charming home once more."

She had already decided to keep the conversation light. In her visits as Karethys, the King had seemed to respond best to her humour. Given that he had invited her here personally, she felt she could push her luck a bit.

He laughed, as she had hoped he would; a rather predatory sound. "May I offer you some wine? It is a particularly fine vintage; my personal favourite year of Verkarth Arbour, 387."

She twisted her mouth. She had grown fond of wine in Wayrest; her mother had seen to it that she was schooled in appreciation of the upper classes' luxuries. But tempting though the smell from the decanter was, it was probably best to err on the side of caution.

"Thank you; no. I will remember the year, though."

"Ah, wise young judge," the King said softly, filling his own glass. "Though it pains me to see a guest with unoccupied hands. Princess, may I be candid? I want to know the reason for the charade you have spun me these past months."

She folded her hands neatly in her lap. "I believe that question was both asked and answered on my last visit."

He leant back in his chair, one gloved hand tracing the rim of the wineglass. "Really? So simple an explanation? I assure you, Princess, whatever you want is negotiable. You have done me a favour, and now I am happy to hear your petition."

She was enjoying herself. The upper hand again! Could he, _would_ he believe that she had no motive save pure whim? "I have no petition."

The King shook his head. "Princess, there is no need to be coy; Auriel knows you've not been a shrinking violet so far. Do you want an alliance? Tutelage? Is there someone you wish to speak with, whom by various mortal reasons is now unavailable?"

"You misunderstand, Sire. I did not come here for favours. I came here because the opportunity presented itself, and I wished to satisfy my curiosity."

For a long minute, the King tapped his finger slowly against the wineglass, looking straight at her with those unnervingly inhuman eyes. She held his gaze. This was a test; she must not look away or appear nervous.

"How interesting," came the reply at long last. "I believe you are speaking the truth. Tell me, then: Is your curiosity satisfied?"

"No."

Another pause. "A shame. Disappointing, to be sure…"

"On the contrary. It is most engaging."

She felt as if a fire had been lit within her. The danger, the tension, the verbal sparring were making her giddier than any wine. She tried to reign herself in. _Careful, girl. You may be batting a metaphorical ball of wool around here, but this is no kitten on the receiving end._

"And what," he replied softly, "of the risks involved? Are you tired of life, that you did not fear discovery and persecution? Or are you simply thoughtless, without the wit to see what might have befallen you?"

That stung, but she forced herself to analyse the question. "I concede that my actions were perilous, certainly. But thoughtless… no, I don't believe so. Scourg Barrow and its occupants have been on my mind a great deal these past months."

He said nothing, only looked at her expectantly. She was not sure if continuing was wise, but that silent visage was so compelling…

"I cannot account for my motivations," she admitted. "I read a name in a book and wished to know more. If I did not generally scorn the idea that our actions are guided by the gods, I might attribute it to the hand of fate."

"I generally try to scorn the same, but unfortunately we do not always have the luxury. Gods are fickle, Princess. They tend to like interfering with the living."

"You say that as if it has never happened the other way round."

He let out another laugh. "Oh, those lucky few who break the cardinal tenets! Don't tell me you plan to join their ranks?"

She smiled; she couldn't help it. "Who can say what the future will bring?"

"Hermaeus Mora, or so he would have you believe," he countered, answering her rhetorical question.

"Then perhaps I shall go to him next."

"Have you tired of me so soon?" He sighed, long-suffering. "Your interest seems hard to sustain, Princess."

"I am not monogamist in my academic acquaintances. I see no reason to drop one for the other."

He leant forward, interested. "Academic? A curious word to use. You see, your motivations are not so unfathomable after all – although I admit it is amusing to hear one refer to a Daedra as an 'academic acquaintance'. I was not so far from the mark when I asked if you wanted tutelage."

Morgiah hesitated.

"That is… not quite true. As a branch of study, I have little interest in Necromancy – saving my Lord," she added politely; after all, it would not do to offend him. "If I was indeed motivated by academia, it was a more general promise of learning that drew me."

The King put his head on one side. "If you do not want tutelage in the Grave Arts, then what?"

"I find it hard to believe that is the limit of your knowledge…"

"True enough."

"…but," she continued, "I had nothing formal in mind. In fact, if I may be forthright, I had not made any plans past this point. At the start, I did not really intend to speak to you at all. How could I have anticipated what was to come? I didn't realise you personally interviewed your followers, although I must say it is an ingenious idea for a spy network."

She could see him evaluating the situation. It was hard to tell whether he was just humouring her, or if he really was interested – although, she reasoned, it would be a simple task for him to get rid of her if he was tiring of this ettiquettal dance. If she judged the circumstances correctly, their acquaintance was equally beneficial. Good relations with one of the most powerful royal seats in the Bay was nothing to sniff at, after all.

"I feel I am bested, for the moment," he said, spreading his gloved hands in a gesture of defeat. "Very well: I hand the reins to you. But before you take them and begone, Princess, _do_ have some wine. It was chosen quite meticulously, you know – and I assure you if I had wanted to kill you, you'd be stone dead before the room had come into focus."

"So your charming letter implied." She debated for a moment; the charisma won. "I can't argue with that sort of frankness. Half a glass, if you please."

With a hint of smugness, he poured for her. She took a sip. The bouquet was stunning; deep tones of oak, cocoa, nutmeg and spice. It lingered on her tongue like the scent of Oblivion.

"To you, if I might make so bold," said the King.

"Absolutely not. To academic acquaintance," she replied lightly.

With an air of profound amusement, he lifted his glass in a toast.


	19. Exposition On Memory

The King And I

Chapter Seventeen – Exposition On Memory

* * *

Nenya surveyed the road that lead down the valley to the Wayrest border, and eventually its capital city.

"It's strange to be passing so close by Wayrest, but not visiting," she mused. "When you think about it, it's sort of at the heart of this whole political spiderweb. Helseth, Morgiah, the things we've been sent back to High Rock to do… I feel it's a mistake to pass it by, like we might find some answers there."

Bomba 'Lurrina made a face. "I understand what you mean, but I would rather give Elysana as wide a berth as possible. I doubt her regard for me has sweetened in the decade of our separation."

Nenya looked curious. "I knew you had dealings with Morgiah while she lived here, but what did you ever do to offend Elysana?"

The Khajiit was taken aback. "Morgiah really didn't tell you anything about me, did she?" She shook her head. "Elysana dislikes me because among other things, I fought and killed her lover."

Nenya tripped over a tussock of grass. "Bloody hell," she muttered. "Remind me not to get in a love triangle with _you."_

Bomba laughed. "I assure you, there was no emotional attachment on _my_ part. Lord Woodbourne was a traitor. The very same man, in fact, who betrayed and murdered King Lysandus, formerly of Daggerfall. Bringing him to justice was the only way to put Lysandus to rest. He had been haunting the streets of Daggerfall for months, crying for revenge. This was half of the task set to me by the Emperor all those years ago; has Morgiah really not told you?"

"I don't know why you're surprised; she's cagier than an Ordinator. She probably wanted you to tell me yourself." Nenya shrugged. "Anyway, I know bits and pieces about the Warp in the West, and how you must have been involved. What baffles me is why the Wayrestians chose Elysana to reign if her sweetheart was a regicide."

Bomba scoffed. "If you had seen her at work among her people, you'd have no trouble understanding _that._ Look at what she's done for Wayrest; its lands have tripled since she took the throne! In any case, the vast majority of the populace believe she was duped. To the everyday Wayrestian, she's sweet as moonsugar. I assure you the moment a dissenting voice appears, it will be mysteriously silenced within a week. Elysana has ways of dealing with people who get vinegar in her honey." Her voice turned hard. "I have seen more of _that_ than I care to."

Nenya threw a sideways glace at her. "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not. Let me say only that Elysana treats those who love her with little more affection than those who want her dead."

"Oh, come off it. You can't give a teaser like that and then not make good."

"Very well," Bomba relented. "When she was eighteen, Elysana had a suitor on the Elder Council – one Lord Castellian, the youngest council member for a century, though still a decade older than Elysana. Obviously, he backed her claim to the throne. I think he genuinely loved her. Helseth needed the council's support, so he fabricated some rather unfortunate evidence that Castellian was having an illicit affair with his own sister. Obviously, it worked. There was no way Castellian could allow such a rumour to circulate."

"Play dirty, don't they, these nobles?" Nenya remarked.

"Quite. Well, Castellian had no choice but to switch his vote to Helseth. It must have been a wrench for him. But Elysana was furious at his betrayal. As part of her revenge, she asked me to send back a robe he'd given her several weeks before. I was none the wiser, and I wanted to get in the Royals' favour."

Nenya blinked. "Returning a robe? If _that_ was her revenge, I'd say the rumours of Elysana's spite are rather exaggerated."

Bomba gave a grim smile. "No. They're _understated._ She'd had a daedric incantation sewn into the brocade, and when Castellian touched the fabric it melted the flesh from his bones."

Nenya pulled up short, looking as if she was about to vomit. "It – I beg your pardon!?"

"I got the blame," Bomba related bitterly. "It was only Queen Barenziah's intervention that kept my head on my shoulders."

Nenya was shaking her head from side to side, looking faintly green. "I've changed my mind about dropping in on Wayrest. If I never meet this woman it will be too soon."

A carriage turned the bend in the road, rattling steadily towards them. Bomba 'Lurrina leapt nimbly onto the verge to avoid it; Nenya followed less gracefully, scrambling through a patch of brambles just before the wheels rumbled past. As the window flashed by, there was the glimpse of a sumptuous interior, and a head full of jewelled yellow ringlets.

Nenya stumped back to the road and brushed her boots off. She was about to resume walking when she realised Bomba 'Lurrina was still on the bank, staring after the coach with narrowed eyes.

"Is everything alright?"

Bomba seemed to shake herself. "… Yes. I just…" she looked after the carriage again warily. "No matter." She hopped back onto the road, business-like once more. "The nearest town with a Mages Guild is Lindayn, two or three leagues from here. I'm a member, so I ought to be able to negotiate passage for both of us. They can transfer us to Ankhora, and from there it's a day's march to Scourg Barrow."

Nenya raised an eyebrow. "You're very knowledgeable about the area."

"This is not the first time I've made this particular journey. I had hoped last time would be the final one; alas, I'm back to couriering once again."

"You seem to be a useful sort of person, particularly where Morgiah is concerned."

Bomba 'Lurrina looked at the horizon, as if into the past. "I should have known that the 'last' time is never really the last. The past experiences shared between Morgiah and I meant that I would always be her natural first choice for a task like this. Once you're bought by a Royal, you're on their list for life."

Nenya groaned. "Remind me again why I got involved in this circus? I hate politics! Secrets and lies and public personas versus private personas and conspiracies and power struggles and _flesh melting off bones_ – honestly, I'm not cut out for this."

"How curious, then, that you have devoted the last three years of your life to Morrowind's political labyrinth," Bomba teased, only half in jest. She'd seen Nenya's strength now, but the politics of the situation still made little sense.

Nenya sighed. "I didn't exactly plan it, you know. In fact, I didn't have any choice in the matter at first, and by the time I did, well… I couldn't leave them in such a mess. I thought I might as well see it through."

"And I expect you thought that when you defeated Dagoth Ur, that would be your 'last' task."

Nenya smiled ruefully. "Alright, I get your point. We're both bought. But honestly, Helseth gives me the shivers. I'd rather find out what he's up to – and fix it – before I go on my merry way."

"The trouble is," the Khajiit said sourly, "we have a lot of suspicious circumstances and no conclusions. It's infuriating!" She raked her claws down the bole of a nearby tree trunk in frustration. "It's all connected. Vivec's disappearance. Shedungent sealed magically, Nulfaga apparently still inside. These mysterious black-robed people. Gortwog's information. Helseth exchanging Wayrest for Mournhold. The interest in Aetherius and Numidium… there is a link here, if only I had the wit to see it!"

Nenya shrugged. "Asking about Numidium's not so strange. Helseth's a scholar – and besides, everyone's got golems on the brain in Morrowind."

Bomba 'Lurrina stopped and stared. After a few paces, Nenya realised she was walking alone, and looked back in confusion. "What?"

"Golems," Bomba 'Lurrina said, like someone coming out of a long sleep. "Golems on the brain. Brains for golems."

Nenya worriedly recalled the mead at the inn last night. Perhaps it had a delayed effect on Khajiits? "Yep," she soothed, "brains for golems. Although what you really need for golems is hearts, not brai- OH!" She caught her breath, her eyes widening as the realisation kicked in.

Bomba 'Lurrina sat down, as if the answers now coming thick and fast had physically knocked her over. "What are the two things that connect the Iliac Bay and Morrowind? First: the Wayrest royal family. Second: golems. Numidium, and…"

"Not – not _Akhulakhan?"_

Bomba 'Lurrina was shaking her head, beginning to laugh, though there was no humour in her voice. "We didn't see it the same way you don't see High Rock by standing in Daggerfall Castle. It's too big. Maruhkati, it's _vast._ Only Helseth… only him…"

"But – but it fell apart! The whole cavern collapsed when Dagoth Ur and I fought! I killed the Heart of Lorkhan, it's dead – there's no way to power the golem, even if you could rebuild…" Nenya trailed off. "I would never have said anyone could do it, but of course, this is Helseth we're talking about. Why didn't we see it? Nulfaga, Aetherius – it all fits. The black-robes must be on his payroll, whoever they are."

Bomba had stopped laughing, the moment of hysteria past. "We have to tell Morgiah. As soon as possible."

"We haven't been to the Dragontails yet, and Northpoint is days away in any case," Nenya reminded her. "Even then, the ship will take a good two weeks to berth in Ebonheart."

"Unless," Bomba said slowly, feeling in her pocket for Morgiah's package addressed to the King of Worms, "there is another way…"

* * *

The Ascadian Isles are known by most of the population as Vvardenfell's holiday region. Red Mountain, that menacing chastiser, is barely visible from its calm shores. As its name suggests, land and water intertwine, forming a scattering of idyllic islands far warmer and more welcoming than its rockier and more monochrome sister, the Azura Coast.

A small passenger boat, hardly more than ten foot long, wound slowly through the shallow channels between sandy islets. In it sat two people who were as different to each other as night from day.

In fact, Caius mused as he surreptitiously studied his companion, he had misjudged Solon. For some reason he had imagined that the Dunmer would look _wrong_ by daylight, that his expertise in the criminal arts would be anathema to the kind of tranquil landscape that now surrounded them. But this could not have been further from the truth. The sun brought out glints of red in Solon's dark hair that had hitherto gone unnoticed, and far from highlighting imperfections or a sallow complexion born of many nights awake and days asleep, all the natural light did was prove how flawless his skin was.

It was most unfair.

Caius was feeling old. Granted, people usually mistook him for older than he was – probably due to the ten years of skooma addict 'cover', he thought bitterly – but he had never felt quite as unkempt as he did sitting next to Solon Gothren. Caius would be forty-two this coming Last Seed, but right now he might as well be ninety and have done with it. The fact that Solon was chronologically _older _than him just rubbed salt in the wound.

And yet… he couldn't find it in him to really dislike the mer. Perhaps it was because despite his knee-weakening appearance, Solon wasn't arrogant. In fact, he displayed little emotion of any kind – apart from a sort of _scientific_ interest, if that could be described as emotion. He had already managed to worm a great deal of personal details out of Caius, and the sergeant never realised quite how much information he'd given away until there was no way to take it back. It seemed like genuine curiosity. Caius couldn't decide whether it was flattering or downright creepy.

Right now, Solon was looking at him again. A quiet, steady gaze that made him clear his throat awkwardly and shift his position in the boat. Damn the mer – didn't he have any sense of personal space?

"You know your way around Dren's estate?" he asked, more to fill the gap than anything.

Just as it had done in Morgiah's office, Solon's expression became troubled at the Tong leader's name. "Yes, enough for us to do what we came for. We find the records, get rid of them and get out. Dren shouldn't be returning before next week, but we can't be too careful."

Caius rested his elbows on his knees, seeing that the Solon was discomfited and finding some spiteful satisfaction in the tables being turned. "You're really not keen on running into him, are you? I wonder why…?"

Solon's mouth twisted. "It is… better that we don't meet. I would rather keep a low profile for the moment."

"Cheated him out of some money? Or took a fancy to his wife, maybe?"

Solon unexpectedly laughed out loud, a hugely startling sound. "Not exactly," he confided, his grin like that of a wolf. "Though not far off the mark."

Caius shrugged. It was probably a not good idea to delve too deeply into Cammona Tong feuds.

The mer cocked his head to one side, his red pupilless eyes infuriatingly unreadable. "Sergeant, I have been meaning to ask… You and Sera Nerevarine. You have spent much time together over the last few years?"

Caius groaned inwardly. He prayed to whatever gods might be listening that Solon hadn't been talking to Crassius.

"Not really," he said shortly, hoping Solon would get the point. "I was recalled to Cyrodiil about nine months after Nenya arrived. She had to finish the assignment without me."

The mer was looking pointedly towards his hand; with a stab of annoyance, Caius realised his last sentence had caused him to unconsciously make a fist. Curse it! He might as well just write it all over his face in red ink.

"You didn't want to go?"

"I don't like leaving a job unfinished, that's all."

"It sounds to me as if many things were left unfinished."

"And what does _that_ mean?" Caius spat.

Solon chose not to respond, looking at the shore and smiling.

"If you must know," Caius said in exasperation, "the decision was out of my hands. I would have stayed if I could. It's not fair to leave a stranger to deal with you people. You're prickly at the best of times, but this Nerevarine business? I'm surprised Helseth was the _only_ one who took out a writ on her. Ruffled a lot of feathers, having a Nord as a Dunmer figurehead."

"Not everyone's. I found it most amusing."

Caius' defensiveness rose before he could suppress it. "Is that so? You lot are all the bloody same. She saves your whole country, and does she get so much as a thank-you? It's enough that–"

"You misunderstand me," Solon cut in coolly. "It was the reactions of my countrymer I found amusing."

"–didn't even – oh," Caius trailed off mid-flow. "Well, you know," he said gruffly, after a moment's sheepish pause. "She doesn't get a lot of thanks."

"I know."

"So, anyway," said Caius, looking out over the bows and trying to pretend the conversation hadn't happened. "How do you know Nenya? She never talked about you. After my time, was it?"

Solon smiled again. "We met at the very place we're heading for. We had a… mutual business interest. As for 'after your time', it wasn't long, I believe. Only a week or so. She talked about you."

It was out before he could stop it. "She did?"

"Yes. She said she needed to write and let you know she wasn't ill, because you had to leave before you knew she'd found a cure. I didn't understand at the time. But of course, now everyone knows… it was part of the prophecy that the Nerevarine would conquer the dread disease. Corprus."

Solon's words brought an unwelcome rush of emotions to the fore of Caius's mind. The fear, the confusion… the guilt that it had been his fault she had got the damn disease in the first place… It was sharp, like a wound.

"I was always curious why you hadn't stayed to make sure she recovered. She spoke of you with fondness; it seemed you were close."

"I didn't –" Caius was incensed at the idea of his departure being _voluntary_. "I had no choice! I was escorted back to Cyrodiil the very next day! I would have fought tooth and nail to stay, I promise you _that!"_

"I realise that now. I had wondered… It seemed so out of character. I was sure she couldn't have heaped so much praise on a person who had simply disappeared in her hour of greatest need."

But Caius wasn't listening. He was drowning in memories.

* * *

_Balmora, Sun's Height, 3E427_

* * *

He woke, thoughts confused and jumbled, his head thick as if stuffed with cotton. Cursing his weakness, he knocked the skooma pipe off the nightstand – never again, he had promised himself; never again! How could this still be happening?

He realised what had stirred him when a pounding came on the front door, heavy and loud. There was something urgent about the erratic blows. Disturbed, he stumbled to his feet catching up the poorly-kept shortblade on the table as he did so, wrenching the door handle to fling it wide.

A nightmare tumbled into the house.

Adrenaline flooding through his body, he drew back the sword, a sudden cry of revulsion escaping him as the _thing_ clutched his arm… and then, as he raised the shortsword in the moonlight spilling through the open door, he caught the face of the monster he was about to behead. Nenya's eyes glowed up at him with appalling inhumanity.

The sword dropped from his fingers, the sound unheard through the terrible roaring in his ears.

She was trying to speak, mouthing the words as her desiccated voice struggled to sound. Her lips were cracked and red. "Help… _help me…"_

He could hardly reply. "Nen… Talos, Nenya! _What happened?"_

"The priest," she croaked, falling sideways out of his grip and crawling across the floor like some kind of demented animal, curling into a dark corner. "The Cult priest, in Ilunibi… I killed him, but he cursed me. I don't know how. Corprus. Please, Caius … please…"

He knelt slowly, his body a dead weight, hands shaking. _"Corprus?"_

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her face now half-hidden in the flicker of the single dying lamp. Pitifully, he found himself grateful. There were too many things wrong, too much in her crouched shape that hinted at deformity. "I'm so sorry, Caius… I didn't know what to do…"

He closed his eyes, unable to look. Please be a skooma-dream, he prayed, his thoughts garbled and panicked. Please be the skooma…

But he knew it wasn't. The Sugar was already leaving his system, the pounding in his head testifying to the empty pipe under his nightstand. When he opened his eyes, the shape was still clinging to the wall, shoulders now moving painfully up and down. Nenya was crying.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, her voice nearly giving out. "I know I shouldn't have come. But there's no-one else! I'm alone here! What could I do? _Please,_ Caius, help me!"

He was paralysed, eyes fixed on her tears. She had never cried in front of him. Never. Since the first day he had met her, she had been cheerful and blasé – almost exasperatingly so. The sight of her shaking with sobs horrified him almost as much as the sunken darkness of her eye sockets and the trembling of her limbs.

"Caius…"

"I…" he began helplessly, darting his eyes about the room, looking at anything but her – and then, miraculously, his gaze fell on the tip of a Dwemer urn, poking haphazardly out of one of his old equipment chests. A wild hope suddenly burst in his chest.

Of course… _Divayth Fyr!_

Fewer than a dozen people in the entire country knew about Fyr's Corprusarium – but after all, it was Caius's job to know things other people didn't. And rumour had it that he was experimenting with his patients. Working on a _cure._

Crossing the room in a single bound, he wrenched the Dwemer urn from the chest and thrust it into Nenya's shaking arms. "Go to Tel Fyr. The mer living there is a sorcerer… he studies Corprus victims. Give him the urn; he likes Dwemer artefacts. Ask him to help you. There's no-one else… Nenya, I'm sorry… you have to go _now!"_

She struggled to her feet, pushing the urn into her pack and lurching her way to the door, reminding him unpleasantly of a drunk… or a skooma addict. At the threshold, she paused and looked back. With the moonlight on her face once more, she looked shocking. Like a corpse.

"Talos be with you," he whispered.

She disappeared.

That was the last time he saw her.

* * *

He'd dreamt about it afterwards for a long time. When her letters came bearing the news of her cure, and later the victory over Dagoth Ur, the dreams became less frequent. It was only when he was troubled or ill that they returned, and in those dark hours before dawn, her shaking shoulders and sunken eyes were even worse than they had been in life. And this time, there was no cure. This time, when she left it was for good. This time, it skewered his heart more painfully than ever because it had been _his _fault, _his_ orders that had sent her to Ilunibi. He had betrayed her, sentenced her to death.

Sometimes she was a snarling monster, grotesque and unrecognisable. He would behead her, and then sob like a child in a lake of her blood.

Sometimes she was frail and terrified, and he couldn't hold onto her no matter how hard he tried. Her bones would snap under his fingers, and she would crumble into dust, wet with tears.

The dreams had stopped since he returned to Morrowind last month. And Talos willing, they would not come back… because now, he would never allow her to face anything like that alone again. Not if all the Emperor's hordes were screaming at his door.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you, **Ambrose51**, for your very kind comments! I'm really happy to know that people are still reading this. I have to finish the damn thing now for my own sake, but it's a bonus to know that others might get something out of it too XD

I always wanted to explore the whole Corprus thing more deeply. I feel like it would have been an incredibly traumatic thing for the Nerevarine to go through - especially someone as naive and alone as Nenya. In the game, Caius actually leaves after you come back cured from Tel Fyr, but I felt the slight tweak made it a little more angsty. The whole thing with his skooma addiction and recall to Cyrodiil was never really explained; I guess if it WAS real and not a cover-up (as I assumed it to be), it would have been a pretty serious slap on the wrist for Caius, and he wouldn't have a lot of freedom for a while afterwards.

Just musing out loud ^_^ Later! x


	20. The Corprusarium And The Courier

The King And I

Chapter Eighteen – The Corprusarium And The Courier

* * *

"Quickly, now," Dralasa hissed, manhandling the two alchemists into the looming tunnel. "Don't slip! Azura's Star, you're clumsy."

"Sorry," Eadwyrd snapped, annoyed. "If you'd just light a candle… There's no-one down here!"

"I'd rather not base my work on assumptions," the Dunmer said dryly, slipping round a corner and motioning her charges to follow. "No more talking until I say."

Eadwyrd bit his lip and shared an alarmed look with Gwynabyth. This was getting uncomfortably serious. Passing the threshold of Tel Fyr had been hair-raising enough; now, traversing the bowels of a cave network which appeared to have housed a slew of terrifying monsters over the years, he was beginning to feel they were in way over their heads.

After another ten minutes of stumbling in the dark, they came at last to a slightly drier region of tunnel, opening out into what looked like a hastily assembled open living-room. It was shabby, and had the distinct air of dereliction. The alchemists looked at it in astonishment.

"This is the weirdest thing we've seen yet," said Gwynabyth fervently. "What _is_ this place? I think it's time we had some answers."

Dralasa raised an irritated eyebrow. "You're here to do your job, not to ask questions." Gwynabyth opened her mouth, but the Dunmer talked over her. "…But I see I'll get no peace, so very well. This place was one of Divayth Fyr's 'experiments'. He called it the Corprusarium. His most valued inmate lived in this particular part."

It was a moment before this truly disturbing information sunk in. Eadwyrd began to splutter.

"I – Corprus – are you out of your _mind?"_

"Oh don't be such a child; there are none left now," Dralasa rolled her eyes, watching Gwynabyth shrink away from the walls as if they were contaminated. "The Corprus patients disappeared more than six months ago; he must have taken them away somewhere. But that's my job to investigate, not yours."

"But _why?"_ whispered Gwynabyth, horrified. "Why did he keep them here?"

"Ser Fyr is an eccentric man," Dralasa answered enigmatically. "Although… I do believe in many ways he wished to relieve their suffering," she admitted. "There was a rumour that he was the one to cure the Nerevarine of her affliction. Just speculation, of course."

"A cure for _Corprus?"_ Gwynabyth said, suddenly looking more interested than repulsed. "Just isolating the source of the disease would be a major breakthrough! And if he did, why didn't we hear anything of it? You'd think it would be huge news."

"Most Dunmer believe the Nerevarine's miraculous recovery was the result of divine intervention, as per the Prophecies," Dralasa said. "But I've long suspected there was a more mundane solution – literally, as Divayth Fyr was quite the alchemist. That's where you come in. I assume the Princess told you there's been an unusual amount of alchemy equipment ordered here recently?"

"Yes…" Eadwyrd looked pensive, sinking onto a dilapidated armchair and then leaping up again as he remembered where he was. "But if you ask me, there's more going on here than a bit of illegal alchemy. Who are all those people in the upper levels? I thought Ser Fyr didn't like too many servants? And didn't he have family here – daughters?"

Dralasa narrowed her eyes. "Like I said, that's my job, not yours. I'll blend in much better with Fyr's black-robed slaves, or whoever they are, than you two would. Leave the espionage to me, please. Just analyse the samples I bring you."

"That's another thing," Gwynabyth interjected, slinging her satchel onto the worn table. "We had to travel incognito; we could hardly lug around a chest of stills. We have some basic equipment, but nothing that can cope with complex deconstructions."

Dralasa smiled; a wry one, but a smile nonetheless. "What do you think the Princess pays me for?" She strode to a dustsheet on a hastily-erected trestle table and whipped it away, revealing a stacked assortment of equipment. "If you need something that's not here, let me deal with it. I'll be sneaking down here as often as I can to bring you supplies and samples. Whatever you need, I can get. Now," said putting her hands on her hips in a businesslike fashion, "what about protection?"

Eadwyrd and Gwynabyth looked at each other. "I thought you said we were safe down here?"

"I'm not an oracle," Dralasa said coolly.

Eadwyrd shrugged, and pulled a couple of scrolls from his satchel. "Morgiah gave us these. She says they're a Mark/Recall based on Almsivi Intervention… only they take us to a saferoom in the Palace itself instead of the Temples. We can't use them unless things get desperate, though."

Dralasa's eyebrows shot into her hairline. "Who did _that_ pretty piece of enchanting?"

"She did, I think," Gwynabyth said uncertainly. "She doesn't let on that she's a mage, does she?"

"No," Dralasa said thoughtfully. "She certainly doesn't. Anyway," she recovered, snapping back to attention, "keep those scrolls on you day and night. You've got what you need. There's some supplies in the storecupboard over there. I'll be back at nightfall – and keep it _quiet."_ Without so much as a farewell, she disappeared into the maze of tunnels.

"Well," Gwynabyth said flatly after a long silence, surveying their depressing surroundings. "Home sweet home."

"You've got to admit," Eadwyrd replied, drawing a line in the dusk on the desk, "it's a damn sight prettier than our Almalexia lodgings."

Gwynabyth stifled a giggle and flicked an expired beetle at him.

* * *

In the quiet sunset, the capital City of Vivec was almost serene. The cantons, huge and imposing, glowed ever so slightly golden. The canals showed barely a ripple.

But under the veneer of tranquillity there was the steady hum of a nation in disarray. The news that there was something amiss with the city's divine namesake could not have been repressed, no matter how the Archcanon sought to stifle it.

In the sumptuous interior of the Hlaalu canton, the mezzanines were abuzz with rumour. And amid it all, like a gloating merchant surveying his wares, was Crassius Curio. This was the kind of environment he thrived in. He was made for it. More to the point, _Hlaalu_ was made for it. The House had always been the best adaptor to change. He was so looking forward to watching Redoran and Telvanni reach meltdown.

There was a knock on the door of his study-suite, opening to reveal his newest secretary, Forvus Graccus.

"Ah, Forvus my dear. You have something for me? A letter? How kind. Sit for a moment with me, pudding – that's right, don't be shy."

The young Imperial blushed scarlet and lowered himself slowly into the chair, looking like a tidbit hung in front of a lion. Crassius mused for a moment that he was baiting the boy a tad too much, but the blush was _so_ amusing. Not to mention charming.

"Now, my boy. How are you finding life in Vivec? Bright lights of the city and all that? Remind me; whereabouts in Cyrodiil are you from?"

"Brindle Home, sir," said Forvus, making a visible effort to compose himself. "Small town north of Skingrad in Colovia. Vineyards, mostly."

"Ah!" Crassius cried, gesturing expansively. "Then, Zenithar bless you, I have your countrymen to thank for the pleasures of West Weald vintage! My favourite. Remarkable, my dear boy; remarkable. And I assume you are making the most of the delights our capital? You disappear off every night, after all; taverns and wenches and so forth, eh?"

"Oh, no sir!" Forvus protested, turning fireberry-red. "I just go to my lodgings… it takes a while to walk there, you see. I'm at Letitia's in the lower Foreign Quarter."

"What's that?" Crassius said, frowning. "Foreign Quarter? Oh no, Forvus, that won't do. That won't do at all. The lower levels are positively dreary. We must have you in the manor; I will send the porter for your things immediately. After all," he said lightly with supreme devilment, "what if something urgent comes up in the night? I'd be all fingers and thumbs without your expertise."

Forvus could not even form the words. His mouth opened and closed like a fish.

Crassius took pity. "Thank you for the letter, Forvus," he said kindly. "Go about your business to your usual excellent standard. Perhaps when you are settled in the manor I'll bring you along to my new play; have you seen it? No? My treat. Off you go, then."

Forvus stammered a few words of thanks and leapt through the door like a salmon.

Chuckling, Crassius reached for the worn bone letter-opener. He shouldn't be so capricious, but damn it, he was getting older every year. He would be forty-five this Hearthfire, and middle-age loomed like an axe. He was entitled to his fun.

Sliding the opener under a corner, he suddenly frowned. The quality of the gold-edged paper was exquisite, and obviously very expensive. But the seal itself was blank, with no device imprinted into its surface. Morgiah, perhaps?

He opened the letter.

_Destination: Councillor Curio, Curio Manor, Upper Hlaalu Canton, Vivec, Vvardenfell, Morrowind._

_Dear Councillor,_

_Please forgive me my anonymity; I am afraid that in these troubled, times, revealing either my name or station might lead to the endangerment of my honour or even my life. My lord, I must beg your indulgence. I have heard your name whispered with respect on the lips of those in my service, and I am in need of your aid. _

_Over the last five years, fuelled by the jealousy, dishonour and greed of those who surround me, I have found myself in the most terrible of situations. Allow me to explain. I am not a native of your current home, although my husband is – we were married young, and in bad judgement. I am of noble birth, and upon the death of my dear parents last Frostfall, I inherited a considerable sum. I need not tell you that my husband is hardly the man I once thought – he covets my fortune, and I now fear for my life. _

_I am alone in this country, too young to engender any air of authority, and ignorant as a child of the laws and customs. As a man of some standing, and also one who is not tied by birth or family to the Dunmer, I chose to contact you out of desperation. I hope that with a man such as you to take my part, I might be guaranteed safety for a time. If you will consent, I beg an audience with you this coming Tirdas. I cannot ask any other; I am sure my servants are in my husband's pay. Please, Ser. I have no-one to turn to._

_Forgive the false name; even so, I presume to be,_

_Your friend and supplicant,_

_Goldenflower_

Crassius sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised, and blew out a long breath. _My word. _

Apart from the delicious mystery of the letter – Crassius was curious as a cat, as many of his contemporaries had observed – the idea of some nubile, high-born damsel in distress throwing herself on his mercy was positively delightful. It was Loredas at present; three days from the mysterious supplicant's proposed meeting.

Three days too many; he was not a man used to waiting. It seemed he would have to gird his loins. Crassius laughed in pure anticipation, stretching back in his chair. Perhaps he could fill the gap with some kind of distraction.

There was a second knock at the door, and the frequently-visiting Bosmer courier slipped into the room, smiling demurely. "Ser, forgive my intrusion. This delivery simply could not wait."

Crassius smirked. It seemed no girding would be necessary.

* * *

The zombie slumped messily, its ruined head made even less appealing by the liberal application of Nenya's hammer.

"Nice place to settle down," the Nord woman remarked. "Cosy."

Bomba laughed. She had made the journey to Scourg Barrow several times over the course of her life, but never had it been so entertaining… or so easy. The Khajiit was a capable bladeswoman, but having Nenya as a companion meant she'd hardly had to draw her katana since stepping off the boat in Northpoint.

She counted the doors carefully. The route had once been familiar, but her last visit was many years behind her. Second on the left, she decided. If all went well, they should reach the cavern section with little difficulty. There was a series of groans, bellows and crashes from the next room; Nenya had apparently taken advantage of the pause to play housemaid. "Time, Nenya!"

"Aye!" came the cheerful shout, followed by a distinct _splat._ The girl emerged, brushing off her cuirass and only succeeding in spreading Mara knew what all over her front.

Through the doorway the walls widened out, drew up, and finally took on the roughness that signified the beginning of the caves. From there, it was a quick jaunt to the lower levels and the bronze-bound-door that signified the beginning of the Necromancer's domain. The door groaned loudly – this entrance was little used, and Nenya had to put her shoulder against it to pit brute force against the ravages of time.

The Great Hall was dark. Bomba lead Nenya straight down the middle, avoiding the hidden walls – she knew from experience what lurked in those shadows. She glanced at Nenya out of the corner of her eye, an amiable shape strolling beside her with the ridiculously huge hammer perched on one shoulder. Would a hall full of Ancient Liches be beyond her? She had a morbid desire to find out. After all, Nenya had singlehandedly swept Red Mountain clean…

Before those thoughts could take root, however, the dais came into view. It was empty.

Bomba 'Lurrina was obviously familiar with the scenario. She raised her voice into the silence of the room, seemingly unconcerned with echoes that rung in the shadowed space. "Letter for the King of Worms."

A shape took form out of the darkness. Nenya's hand went smoothly to her hammer, but Bomba gripped her wrist before she could reach it.

"Emperor's Agent," a gravelly voice pronounced.

"You're about twenty years out of date," said Bomba 'Lurrina with melting suavity. "But essentially, yes."

The shape inclined its head. All the King's servants were hooded, the wrapped cloth falling low to obscure their faces. It had a suspiciously dehumanising effect. This one was bare to the waist, the dim torchlight flickering off the gold rune-symbol that adorned his belt. "Follow."

They were lead to a dark door off the side of the dais and shown inside. It was an anteroom; pleasant enough, although a more sumptuous interior could be glimpsed through the crack of the door that lead further away from the Hall.

"How unexpected," came a strangely resonant voice from behind them. "I had assumed your couriering days were over."

The two women turned, alarmed. Nenya's hammer caught the lip of a finely wrought porcelain urn; it wobbled for an awful moment, then crashed in a catastrophe of shards to the flagstone floor.

The King of Worms sighed. "Kindly try not to upset any more of my antiques, won't you? Some of them I've grown quite fond of. Who is this delightful guest you've brought me, Miss 'Lurrina?"

To her credit, Bomba skated over the moment marvellously. She made a small formal bow. "Your Majesty, allow me to present Nenya, the Nerevarine of Morrowind."

"Charmed," the King said unconvincingly. Nenya looked for a moment as if she was considering a bow of her own, but noted the porcelain remains and quickly desisted, much to Bomba's relief.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure? Surely the Princess did not send you all this way just to deliver another letter? That seems a little capricious, even for her."

"Your usual method of communication has expended its magicka, your Majesty. She cannot re-enchant it herself, as I'm sure you know."

The King imperceptibly cocked his head to one side, his unsettlingly bright gaze fixed on the Khajiit. It was hard to look at his 'eyes' for any length of time; the light was uncomfortable, almost painful. Bomba found she always came away from this place with a crippling headache.

"Indeed?" he said softly. "Thirty years… surely it cannot be to the day… how curious." He held out his gloved hand; Bomba removed a bundle from her pack and gave it to him. She was always exceptionally careful not to touch any part of him, even a fingertip.

The King opened the package, and with faint surprise, withdrew a blue gem. Holding it up to the light, he regarded it intently. Then he broke the seal on the letter.

Bomba had always been uneasy about how the faceless shadow in the hood could convey expression. It sort of came to you as intuition. It had taken a long time to become attuned to the subtleties of it; she imagined it would be easier for a more intimate acquaintance. Someone like the sender of the letter.

The impression she was getting from him at the moment was pleasant surprise. "How diverting," he remarked cryptically. "Almost a perfect copy! Ingenious, as ever." He dipped a quill into the elaborate inkpot and began a reply. "So, Miss 'Lurrina, how have you been faring? Do you still reside in Daggerfall?" The scratching of the quill sounded loud in the stillness of the subterranean room.

"Not at present, your Majesty," said Bomba 'Lurrina stiffly. She was never comfortable making small talk here. "I am staying in Morrowind for the time being, on account of the Princess' employment."

"Lucky you. And Sera Nerevarine, what of you?"

"Oh, Nenya please," the Nord said predictably, although Bomba had to admit she would not have believed even _Nenya_ could be so flippant here. She must have a constitution of steel.

The King ignored her correction with the practised ease of someone who knows he is the most important person in the room. "Enjoying the Dumner's fascinating nation, are we?"

"They could do with a bit more mead."

The King laughed as he finished the letter. The sound made unpleasant echoes around the room. "I daresay they could. Here," he said, sealing the letter and holding it out to Bomba 'Lurrina. "It goes without saying that this is to be delivered to one hand only. Now, is there any other business you wish to discuss?"

Bomba hesitated. "Well… there is one thing. The Princess sent us to High Rock to gather information. The thing is, certain things have come to light in the past few days that she ought to know as soon as possible – if not immediately. Going back the way we came means that this information will come to her attention in three weeks at the very earliest… and that may be too late."

"How very enigmatic of you. You believe I may have an alternate method of transportation, then?"

Bomba thinned her lips, evidently unhappy with the idea of asking a favour. "It is exceedingly important we contact her as soon as possible, your Majesty."

"So inconvenient that our usual communication method has let us down; I could have sent you directly to Mournhold. As it is, I believe there is an alternative." The King leant back in his chair and twirled the quill around his fingers. "My own Agents have developed a particularly resourceful network of transportation among themselves; strictly regulated, of course, but free for my use should I desire so. They originate from meeting-houses all over Tamriel, although they are naturally scarcer the farther you travel from the Iliac Bay."

Opening a drawer in his desk, he drew out a heavily annotated map and glanced over the surface for a few short moments. "I believe I may be able to send you as far as Reich Carigate. From there, the trip to Almalexia should be one week at most. Is that agreeable?"

"We are most grateful, your Majesty," said Bomba 'Lurrina with icy politeness. "We ought to leave at once, if it please you."

"My people will show you to the gazebo chamber." The King stood, making both women flinch at the suddenness. "Do come again some time, Miss 'Lurrina. And you, Sera Nerevarine, although I must beg you not to take your frustration with Dunmer sobriety out on my antiques. Good day."

* * *

If she never had to set foot on a boat again, Bomba 'Lurrina thought, she would be a happy Khajiit.

They had decided to take the last leg of their journey from Omayni by sea, turning south down the river by Darvon's Watch towards Almalexia. Although the water was nowhere near as rough as the choppy wastes between Tamriel and Atmora, it was fresh enough to rock the deck and bring back all Bomba's unpleasant memories of their previous voyage.

The sun was setting. Nenya came to lean on the rail beside her, once again infuriatingly comfortable in their nautical surroundings. "You _really_ didn't like it, did you?"

"What?" asked Bomba 'Lurrina distractedly, sipping the peppermint infusion she'd been given to settle her stomach. "The ship?"

Nenya laughed. "Oh no, we've been over that. I meant Scourg Barrow."

Bomba smiled wryly. "Is it so easy to tell? You're right; it's not my favourite place. And I say that as someone who is on relatively good terms with its occupants."

"I must say," Nenya conceded, "I've seen gods go mad and fought leprous monsters who wanted to eat my flesh, but the King of Worms gives me the _jeebies."_

The Khajiit smirked at Nenya's articulation, but nodded in agreement. "You're right… don't you hate how he looks so _normal?_ I detest things that don't look like what they are."

"Normal!? I know you've seen a lot of queer things, Bom, but really…"

Bomba punched her arm lightly. "You know what I mean. You can't tell me you weren't expecting something a touch more dramatic. Skulls and gravemold and skeletal fingers. Bloodstained robes, corpses everywhere, etcetera."

"Maybe he only puts on his skulls and gravemold for special occasions. You know; housewarmings, birthdays and things."

Bomba laughed so hard she spat out her tea. "Oh Nenya," she said weakly, "how did I live all this time without you? I've been missing a trick working alone all these years."

Nenya grinned roguishly. "It's been a lark, hasn't it? Can't wait to tell Caius all about it. Wonder how he's getting on with Solon." She chuckled, as if from an inside joke.

Bomba had restrained from prying into Nenya's personal life, but she couldn't help but notice the animation that came to Nenya's face when she spoke her former Blademaster's name. "You're close, aren't you? You and Sergeant Cosades?"

Incredibly, Nenya looked shy. Her Nord colouring did her no favours here; when she blushed, she blushed like wildfire.

"He's…" she seemed to be struggling for words, impaired by embarrassment. "We get on well."

Her flaming cheeks belied the simplicity of her statement, but Bomba 'Lurrina merely smiled and let it drop. The kind of loyalty she had witnessed between Nenya and Caius, even in that short time she had seen them together, was testament to itself. She wondered if Caius knew how lucky he was.

"Oh, and by the way," Nenya said casually in a clear attempt to change the subject, "I thought you might like to see something."

Bomba 'Lurrina watched curiously as the Nord unlaced her pack and hefted out the sinister-looking ebony helmet she'd worn on the road to Orsinium. Up close, the patterns of the inlay seemed to move slowly through the metalwork like coiled snakes. Bomba shivered as she remembered the stranger who had decimated the goblins.

"What did you want to show me this for?" she asked, hoping her reaction hadn't been obvious. "I've seen you wear it before."

"Oh, it's not specifically the _helmet_ I'm showing you," Nenya replied airily. "It's this."

She dropped the ebony unceremoniously into the sea.

Bomba gaped, stretching over the rail as he splash fell behind in the wake of the boat. Two seconds later and it was gone without a trace. "What – _why?"_

"I don't want it," Nenya said, serious for once. "I don't need it and I don't need what it does. I can be the Nerevarine and still be Nenya too, can't I?"

Perhaps the seasickness had made her overemotional, but for whatever reason, Bomba 'Lurrina felt tears sting her eyes. She turned to the sunset so Nenya couldn't see.

"Yes," she said emphatically. "You can."

They shared the rest of the peppermint tea, and watched the sun go down together.

* * *

**A/N: **As always, thank you for your support and encouragement. **Burntsierra**, I already told you on ESF, but it bears repeating - thank you thank you thank you for your incredibly kind words! I am thrilled to have made you chuckle, and thrilled to have made you pause. It's all an author could ask for! And **bhen**, I apologise for the lack of Solon in this chapter... you'll get your due eventually, I promise!

x


	21. Interlude 8 The First Of Many

The King And I

Chapter Nineteen – Interlude Eight; The First Of Many

* * *

_Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Sun's Dusk 3E 405. It is twenty-four years before the present day. Morgiah is 29._

* * *

All things told, the last six years in Wayrest could best be summarised by the phrase "brewing storm".

Elysana was now a young woman, and although at seventeen years of age the roundness of youth had not left her face, her eyes told a different story. Not to anyone whom she wished to charm, of course, but to Morgiah – who was naturally not on her list of conquests – the venom in her eyes was clear as day. Through a mixture of artful stereotype exploitation and diabolical charisma, she had managed to gain the reputation of having a mouth that butter would rather die than melt in.

Helseth, by comparison, was not doing so well.

He made no secret of his ambition for the throne. His obsession with court politics had grown steadily through his coming of age, and he had not wasted time in securing a regular seat on the council, finally declaring his intentions openly the previous year. In popular opinion he was viewed with wariness – his capability was obvious, but old nationalism died hard. When it came to the wire, Wayrest did not want a Dunmer king.

Morgiah watched the players move into place with increasing detachment. She had come to the decision, via a number of calculations, that any involvement in the Crown Race on her part was folly. Her mind had been drifting further and further from Wayrest over the years, fuelled by her frustration at its academic limits. Quite apart from which, Helseth clearly had his heart set on the monarchy and she was loath to place more strain on their already overtaxed relationship.

For Barenziah's part, she did not question her daughter's choice. She was simply glad that her children would not become rivals.

Nevertheless, this lack of rivalry prompted something just as undesirable: isolation. Morgiah's withdrawal from Wayrest politics removed her not only from her brother's view, but that of the entire city. Rumour and gossip centred on Helseth and Elysana; when Morgiah's name was mentioned once in a blue moon, it was accompanied by a faint suggestion of surprise. "Oh yes, the third one… I forget about her, don't you?"

Morgiah was not oblivious to this slow decline in popular interest, but neither did she hinder it. In the back of her mind, she knew it was for the best. She didn't intend on staying here for much longer, and when she left, it was better that people didn't have too much dirt on her. Plus, less focus on her activities gave her freer rein than ever before – for example, to make underhand use of her mother's extensive spy network.

Morgiah was forming a _plan._

Her studies had taken a turn for the particular in the past six years. Since the downfall of the Imperial Simulacrum and the defeat of Jagar Tharn, she had been increasingly interested in the abundant rumours of artefacts. Annoyingly, the so-called hero of Ria Silmane's that had been instrumental in Tharn's defeat had proven fiendishly difficult to pin down – even his name was a mystery. But that didn't stop the gossip. He had found Auriel's Bow. No, it was the Ogmha Infinium. No, the Staff of Chaos had not been destroyed after all, and he had taken it for his own. No, it was all of them; he was collecting his own personal armoury of artefacts… and so on.

She could not have told anyone how or when the artefact fire had been kindled in her, but it was burning brightly. She could not stop thinking about them. And one in particular burned the brightest of all: the Ogmha Infinium. Her thirst for learning had, if anything, only increased in response to Wayrest's lack of scope. Jagar Tharn's victor had found the legendary tome, and she wanted to know how.

Curiously, her twin desires seemed to point to one place – Firsthold. Six years ago Barenziah had recommended the city for its extensive library, in an off-hand comment that had lodged itself in Morgiah's mind with surprising tenacity. Now, the few relevant scraps of information she had managed to gather seemed to point to Firsthold as the home of none other than the Ria Silmane's champion. She found the unexpected conincidence amusing; ever since she had scorned the hand of fate in Scourg Barrow, it was as if it was determined to prove its existence to her.

She could hear voices outside her study door, the familiar tones of Helseth and Elysana drifting along the passage. She was surprised; they usually avoided each other like the plague when state occasion did not require their presence. Their voices were low and she could not distinguish the words, but the poison from both sides was obvious. Elysana hissed a string of obscenities, and their footsteps separated, fading in opposite directions down the hall.

Morgiah looked out of the window. It was growing dark, but she could just make out the shape of the privet-maze through the dim curtain of snowflakes. Winter was at its height; in three days, it would be New Life, the festival of the changing year. A time for celebration and hope.

But for the Wayrest Royal Family, it seemed the new year could bring nothing good.

* * *

_Tel Fyr, Azura Coast Region, Vvardenfell, 23__rd__ First Seed 3E 429._

* * *

In Tel Fyr, the Dreamer Master surveyed his underling with cool arrogance. He didn't recognise this particular woman – as much as you _could_ recognise any of the Dreamers under their black-hooded robes – but that was not particularly unusual these days. Helseth's operation had tripled in size the last month, bringing new faces with it.

"I have brought the equipment you requested, Master," she said respectfully, bowing and indicating a heavy brass-bound chest beside her.

"Good," said the Master haughtily, brushing past her to inspect the contents. "A quick arrival – see that you maintain this level of efficiency. This project is of the highest importance."

"Of course, Master," the woman replied deferentially. She had moved behind him as he passed, stepping further towards the cabinet at the side of the room. Inside, a stand of glass phials gleamed with strange indigo liquid.

The master extracted an alembic, placing it carefully on the desk. Bent over the delicate tubing, he did not notice the Dreamer underling slip a hand inside the cabinet and quickly tuck a phial under her cloak.

"Leave me," he told her distractedly, not looking up from his inspection.

Dralasa Llethi obeyed, a smile on her lips.

* * *

_Scourg Barrow, Dragontail Mountains, Hammerfell, Evening Star 3E 405. It is twenty-four years before the present day. Morgiah is 29._

* * *

The room was quiet, the only audible noises the tick of the exquisitely crafted carriage clock on the mantelpiece, and the low murmur of conversation from the fireside.

"I am most vexed, Princess," said the King, as if he were the kind of man who could be brought low by collapsed shares or a bad harvest.

Morgiah made a sympathetic noise and sipped at her wine. "How so, Sire? Am I the cause?"

"I don't believe you are even _capable_ of vexing me, Princess," he said airily. As so often with his flippant remarks, she was unsure as to whether it was a compliment or an insult. She suspected he did it on purpose. Bastard.

"Well then, tell on. I am aflame to hear your anxieties."

"You look it," the King said dryly. "Nevertheless, I think your interest will be piqued when you hear more. The nature of this vexation has to do with artefacts, and I know how close you hold that particular subject to your heart."

Morgiah raised an eyebrow, immediately attentive. "You don't say? Artefacts, plural?"

"Maybe so. I think you will agree that the situation is intriguing. I have received a letter from one Reman, King of Firsthold."

"Firsthold?" Yet another coincidence.

"Indeed. I should like you to read it, if you would be so kind. You see, this predicament happens to involve you."

Taken aback, she met his eyes (such as they were) as he offered the envelope. As always, there was little to be gleaned. Burning with curiosity, she withdrew the heavy parchment. The room was silent as she read. The King of Worms watched her, the clock ticking like a metronome.

When she had finished, she folded the letter up neatly and tucked it back in its envelope. "Well. That _is_ interesting."

"Indulge me, Princess." The King leant back in his chair, steepling his gloved fingertips. "I want to hear your take on the matter."

Morgiah rose and walked to the large marble fireplace, resting her hands on the mantel and soaking up the heat. Warmth always helped her think. Closing her eyes, she began to mentally sift through the information.

"To me, the most interesting thing is that Reman not only contacted _you, _but was seemingly able to find you with little trouble. Since the catastrophe he speaks of could not have happened less than a week ago, you must have been the very first person he wrote to – even a week is fast from the Summurset Isles to Hammerfell, unless his courier used the Mages Guild. Therefore, I would guess you have an Agent at court. Am I right?"

"Very astute. I do indeed have a contact in the Firsthold court – one I may have to scold for giving information away so freely, but there you are. By all means, continue."

Morgiah rolled the green gem between her fingers pensively. "Of course, then there is the catastrophe itself. Reman's son, next in line to the throne, somehow gets his hands on the Necromancer's Amulet – which is apparently, I don't know, hanging around the royal nursery or something? The whole thing seems ridiculous."

The King laughed. "While I delight in the image of Reman amusing his offspring with rattles made of ancient relics, I believe the reality was somewhat different. Reman's son is no toddler, but the eldest of three, a youth of eighteen. It seems he was poking around the lower levels of the Royal Treasury with a couple of highborn lackeys, and came across the Amulet quite accidentally. As he touched the thing, the force of power released by the contact threw his spirit out of Mundus entirely, and from what I can gather from my own investigations since, is suspended at the door to Oblivion in terrible agony. Naturally, his father is concerned."

"What concerns _me_ is what Reman's doing with your jewellery in the first place."

"Ah, so you have done your research!" He seemed inordinately pleased. "The fact that the Amulet was originally mine is not commonly known, despite it being fairly obvious, wouldn't you say? I rather think most people believe me a myth."

"A shame. They don't know what they're missing. So, Reman's son is suspended in a state of living death with your Amulet, and Reman contacted you first because he, too, knows it rightfully belongs to you. I suppose he thinks you might have some uncommon knowledge of the thing that will present a solution to his unfortunate predicament?"

"Bravo. A most accurate summary."

"Well, I can see what's in this for you: the Amulet, of course. But I have to reproach you for making me believe I was involved. My name is mentioned nowhere in the letter. Were you just trying to whet my appetite?"

"Ah," said the King, toying slowly with his wineglass. "No. It is not Reman that wants to involve you, Princess. It is me."

Pause. "What manner of involvement?"

"I thought we could strike a bargain."

Morgiah was silent.

The idea of doing business with him both excited and repelled her. So far, their relationship had not been at all mercenary. Making some sort of deal together would change it irrevocably, and she was not quite sure she wanted that to happen.

"As I understand, Sire, you are already in my debt. Would you beggar yourself even further?"

He regarded her steadily. "True, of course, the Order of Arkay debacle… although I have repeatedly offered to settle that particular score, and as of yet you have not named your terms. I could almost believe you are withholding in order to secure some kind of tenuous insurance for my future favour. Being that the case, one might consider my kindly indulgence of such audacity an adequate reward. I assure you, these civilised little wine-drinking sessions are not standard fare in my halls."

_That_ made her feel distinctly threatened. With no facial expression she couldn't gauge his seriousness, and while it _was_ the kind of thing he might throw out facetiously, this time his tone felt more ambiguous. She had allowed herself to become relaxed in his presence over the last six years, but had that really been such a good idea? Was he simply lulling her into a false sense of security? She suddenly realised how pathetic her pretensions of intelligence were compared to his millennia of experience.

But she remembered the fear and danger she had felt on the night he revealed her identity, and how she had mastered it then. She must do the same now. "And what would be the nature of this bargain?"

The King did not pursue his needling, much to her relief. Whether his words had not held the meaning they seemed to imply, or he had merely decided to bide his time, she could not say. "You asked what was in this for me. And you are right; the Amulet. Now it has turned up, I am loath to let it slip into the hands of another wretched "champion". The thing is, I find myself in a quandary. I cannot retrieve it alone."

"No? Why?"

"It is complicated. This is an item with which I spent a great deal of time experimenting in my youth. There are… connotations."

She frowned. "Connotations? Ones that would hinder you in successfully restoring the Prince to his father?"

"Oh, I'm afraid it is no longer a case of "successfully restoring". The Prince's body was destroyed as soon as he touched the Amulet. His spirit is now effectively imprisoned; the Amulet has remarkable restorative and magicka reflection properties, and they are keeping him in limbo – originally designed to be helpful, of course, but obviously in this case it is quite the opposite. He simply cannot die until he is free of it, and so merely idles in a constant state of both healing and degeneration. Reman is a widower; all he has now is the wellbeing of his sons. He will want a final restful death for Tellanaco."

Morgiah drummed her fingers on the mantelpiece. "And you cannot give it."

"Final and restful, no. The Amulet will react to my presence in a certain way, which I can assure you will create a rather disastrous conclusion for our young Prince."

"Dare I ask why?"

The King gave the impression that he was smirking, as he so often did. "The Amulet and I have, shall we say… _artistic differences?_ There will be no problem when it is fully in my possession, but until then, it has something of a life of its own."

Morgiah had a sudden flash of insight as she recalled the common method for enchanting. "Good lord, whose soul did you put in that thing?"

"A story for another visit. Suffice to say that it is powerful enough to project some form of willpower outside the physical confines of the Amulet, and in a delicious twist of irony it particularly dislikes Necromancers. Quite strongly." He came to join her by the fire. "So you see, my intervention is quite out of the question, and I cannot simply use one of my agents; they all have the same problem. I need someone with no Necromantic connections, but who nevertheless has considerable talent in magic… and who has enough of an interest in my favour to retain a certain amount of _discretion_ on the subject."

She laughed; she couldn't help herself. "And _I _was your best option? You poor soul."

"I confess I am curious to see how you would perform in such a situation. You have never given much away about your abilities, and I find the whole affair quite tantalising."

"So in short, you are conducting some kind of elaborate experiment."

The smirk again. "I sense I am not enticing you."

"Not immeasurably, no."

"Then perhaps this will help. You recall I said this may involve artefacts, plural? I think I have a lead on your pet daydream. I understand you have been researching the whereabouts of the Ogmha Infinium this past decade."

That did it. Oh, you tricky thing. "Don't tell me Reman has _that _tucked away in his treasury as well. What is he doing, amassing an arsenal?"

"I regret to say I do not know the exact location. But I have taken it on myself to do some research, and my contacts inform me that the Infinium has _without doubt_ been in the Firsthold Palace sometime in the last six years. They believe it has something to do with the elusive hero who defeated Jagar Tharn; he is a Firsthold citizen, although infuriatingly evasive of any espionage attempts."

Morgiah pondered. She had to admit, he had her. She wanted the Infinium badly. His information was a weak lead, but she was coming to believe that some capricious god was determined to get her to Firsthold, and this was its most ambitious bait yet. "Well, after you've dangled my first artefact in front of my face and snatched it away, I suppose it's only fair you provide an alternative."

The King laughed unexpectedly. _"Your_ first? Princess, do you _never_ worry about inciting my wrath? People tend to, you know."

"Well, as it sounds as if I shall be the one retrieving the Amulet, and it's finders keepers in this game, as I am lead to believe… but I am a reasonable woman. I shall graciously turn it over to you, since you have so kindly suggested a second."

He gave a sigh of mock weariness. "And again, I am bested. So," he continued, returning to his desk and filling both their glasses, "is it too much to expect you to name a price this time? Must I languish in debt as I have done before?"

And then it came to Morgiah in a single moment of clarity.

"I want to marry Reman," she said.

The King paused. She might even have believed he was taken aback. Finally, he swirled the wine around his glass and lifted it to the light, splitting the crystal into faint rainbows that scattered across the room. "Really? He's an awful bore."

"Bore or not, he's King of Firsthold. I gave up on Wayrest years ago; it's time to set my sights on pastures new."

"New, yes… but ambitious. Firsthold is a most powerful seat, and the Altmer will not take well to a foreign queen."

Morgiah tossed her head airily. "I have been a foreign princess all my life. I don't suppose being a foreign queen will be much different."

"I am certain you will set the court ablaze. I am to take this as my end of the bargain, then?"

Morgiah hesitated. It was a good plan, but something about both conceiving and cementing a marriage pact in less than five minutes felt a little heady. "Not immediately. Let me go away and think it over. I'll have my answer for you in one week."

"I cannot promise you anything, Princess, but I will do my best to broker for you. Shall I send your likeness to Reman? Or simply use what verbal delights I can conjure from memory?"

"He can see me himself when we come to Firsthold. I imagine he's so desperate to save his son that he'll agree to anything. He'd probably marry Nulfaga."

The King laughed once more. "Very well. Consider your answer carefully, Princess. I shall anticipate it with bated breath."

"Funny," said Morgiah, draining her glass. "I wasn't aware you breathed at all."

* * *

_Scourg Barrow, Hammerfell, Morning Star 3E 406_

* * *

Nestled between the crags of the arid Dragontail Mountains, Scourg Barrow looked something like its location's namesake; a beast concealed and ready to strike.

Necromancers were not the only visitors the dilapidated fortress ever entertained. It was common enough that every so often, some opportunist adventurer or pious knight would chance upon the structure and brave the undead that lurked in the higher reaches. The Necromancers' own domain was far below the ground; magic being their main method of entrance, the front door and upper sections were abandoned and unused. It was a useful deterrent for unwary travellers.

Occasionally, one intrepid individual might stumble into the King of Worms' halls. What happened to them varied according to their character. Mercenaries and sellswords out purely for gold were usually unharmed; such people were not likely to incite crusades, and could sometimes be useful for opportunist errand-running. Those who looked ready to dash to the nearest Arkay Order were without fail put to the sword. Considering the number of Ancient Liches that flanked the Great Hall's perimeter, this was usually short work. So when an Ohmes Raht Khajiit turned up at the door and prowled her way across the room, she was carefully watched. She looked fairly mercenary, but you could never tell who would turn out to be a zealot.

The King of Worms was on the dais. There had been a gathering not long before, and though the hall was nearly empty a few Agents remained, as did the two hooded dancers adorning the platform.

"I have a letter for the King of Worms," the Khajiit announced, looking round unnecessarily as if it was somehow hard to pick him out of the crowd.

The red-cloaked figure on the dais slowly turned his head to her. Though the silhouette was that of a normal man, there was something deeply disturbing about the darkness that gathered under the hood. He held a staff; she jumped as a faint crackle of energy sparked down the shaft.

She could tell he was interested, though. Letters at Scourg Barrow were no doubt scarce; couriers who battled their way through the hordes of undead to deliver them must be even rarer.

The King spoke. To her immense surprise, his voice was not the graveyard rasp she had expected… though there _was_ a faint resonance there, the trace of a deep echo that made her think of dungeons, of oubliettes, of long-lost tombs beneath the earth. "You're very dedicated for a courier."

"I'm well paid," Bomba 'Lurrina drawled.

"No doubt. By whom?"

"Some princess. I believe you know her."

He did not reply; was he surprised? It was impossible to tell anything from those unnatural blue fires. Instead, he held one gloved hand out for the letter. She drew it from her pack and passed it to him, taking care not to touch his fingers.

She had not been prepared for what she would see here. Morgiah had been frustratingly obscure; the Khajiit had only obliged because she had been promised information on her return, and of course getting cosy with the royals was never a bad idea. So saying, the King of Worms was not quite what she had pictured. The blackness in the hood and the blue pinpoints of light were inhuman, certainly, but nothing like the diabolical festering lich she had pictured. You couldn't even tell if he _was_ a lich.

Somehow, that made it even worse.

The King finished the letter and lowered it. It was bizarre; even without a face, he seemed to be smiling in amusement. The Khajiit thought that was odd – she had callously read the letter herself, of course, and there was nothing in the innocuously short missive that she would have named comical.

His words had an edge to them that made her ears buzz and ache. "Excellent; our bargain is struck. As an aside, did she tell you exactly why she was sending a _letter?"_

"What? No… your Majesty," she suffixed hastily, unsure of the etiquette and erring on the side of caution. "Does she not normally send letters?"

"The Princess and I have an alternate method of communication. I am curious as to why she used you instead. Perhaps she wished to put you in my path… if you're who I think you are, you're making a bit of a name for yourself in the Bay." He passed his staff to an attendant, who took and bowed before retreating to his post. "Stay, Cat. I must write a response."

If Bomba 'Lurrina felt any affront at the insulting epithet, she was wise enough not to voice it. The King melted into the shadows at the back of the dais, disappearing through a heavy bronze-bound door through which the tantalising glint of soft candlelight spilled.

She endured an uncomfortable few minutes among the silent hooded Agents before he returned, a thin envelope with an exquisitely scripted address in his hand. "See that this is delivered directly to the Princess herself. No servant, no thrall, no slave. Her own hand."

She nodded, suddenly looking forward even to the rat-infested caverns, simply because they marked the path away from this place. An insistent feeling of dread was crawling up her spine like a dismembered hand. Her usual arrogant manner had died; she had never been so keen to get away in her life.

But before she could leave, his disquieting voice hailed her from the stage. "By the way, Cat… keep your eyes open. I may have some employment opportunities for you in the future. The Princess sent you to me for a reason, and I suspect it is because you're useful. Don't worry about killing off any of my pets in the upper halls; they'll be back next time you come."

She looked into his 'eyes', and said the only sensible thing anyone could.

"Yes, Sire."

* * *

**A/N**: Anticlimax? Possibly. I wracked my brains over a realistic "First", but in the end it seemed to develop organically. This peculiar conclusion grew out of a number of observances I'd made on both Morgiah and the King of Worms' personalities, and it seemed to fall into place without much intervention from me. I'm sure a lot of people will find it unsatisfying next to many of the juicier theories that have been proposed - lots of people seemed to like the idea of 'first' referring to virginity, but I didn't want to add that kind of dynamic to their relationship. Plus, what interest does sex hold for a millenia-old demigod? To any milennia-old demigods reading this: answers on a postcard?

**Bhen**, again I had to disappoint you! Solon will be here eventually, I promise... I did actually make him in Oblivion if you're interested. I can send you the shots if you like, and if you really want, you can have your own personal Solon savegame :D Just remember, he needs feeding and watering three times a day. A Solon is for life, not just for Christmas.

**Clodia,** thank you for your generous and numerous reviews! I am also delighted that you've been inspired to play Daggerfall, but less delighted at the thought I may have interrupted your dissertation :( Good luck on it! I remember mine; damn, getting that thing out was like giving birth. Funny, I seem to get a very similar feeling nowadays when I open up my King & I notes... :D


	22. In Which We Gather The Threads

The King And I

Chapter Twenty – In Which We Gather The Threads

* * *

In the Ascadian Isles, on the flower-speckled grassland that sloped up towards Orvas Dren's estate, Solon Gothren and Caius Cosades were having a polite conversation.

Solon was playing nice, Caius had decided. After their last exchange concerning Nenya, the mer seemed to have realised he was touching a nerve. They had moved onto the relatively less personal subject of politics.

"I'm not surprised Dren is connected to Hlaalu, to be honest," Caius admitted. "After all, it's the most adaptable of the Houses – and the one that came out of the Nerevarine business with the least losses. They're the survivor House."

"But some might say they survived by renouncing their roots," Solon disputed, always devil's advocate. "Telvanni pretend they don't exist; to them, Hlaalu's become a blot on Morrowind's history. Even Redoran have been distant in their dealings with them this past decade."

"Yes, but look where that got them, eh? All the casualties in the Nerevarine ascension came from Telvanni and Redoran. Bolvyn Venim took Nenya all the way to the Arena; rumours of _that _little altercation went all the way to the Imperial City. And Talos knows what she had to do to get the Telvanni majority vote. It didn't take long for Archmage Gothren to meet his maker, did it? And–"

Caius suddenly stopped, mid-flow. Something was knocking on a door inside his mind. What had he just said?

… Archmage _Gothren?!_

He glanced sideways look at Solon, who was tightening the wire on his crossbow. It wasn't an inconceivably rare name, but still… could it be?

"Most Dunmer have an affiliation with one of the Great Houses, don't they?" he said conversationally. "Through family, usually. You've never mentioned it. Do you have connections with any in particular?"

Solon turned to look at him, and suddenly Caius realised just how stupid he was to think that Solon couldn't see through him like a pane of glass.

"I have connections everywhere, Sergeant," Solon said with total inscrutability. "And as such, I have connections nowhere. You know how it is."

"Yes," said Caius. "Yes, I think I do."

He was beginning to feel deep as a puddle next to this particular quagmire.

* * *

Crassius was awash in a sea of tantalising ecstasy.

His meeting with the mysterious 'Goldenflower' had been on his mind unceasingly for the last three days; now, with the wait over, the excitement had reached a crescendo. In the light of the candles he had set casually yet artfully on the mantelpiece, Goldenflower glowed like peaches and cream, a luxuriant swathe of blue silk chiffon draped modestly over her blonde curls.

She had surpassed his wildest expectations. The woman was achingly beautiful, nobly spoken and delicate as a kanet-blossom. She reminded him of a timid, wide-eyed doe. The way she looked at him with such trusting admiration, her rosebud lips trembling with vulnerability, made his knees turn to water.

"Good Ser," she said pleadingly in a voice that was like falling silver, "I am horrified by the conclusion my predicament has brought me to, but pray believe me when I say I have no choice. My husband…"

"…is a dishonourable fool, my lady. Not to mention blind, that he could treat such a tender beauty with this callous contempt. To plot the theft of your rightful inheritance is nothing short of monstrous." Crassius shook his head, tutting. "You did just the right thing in coming to me, precious. But what is this horrifying conclusion you so haltingly speak of? Calm yourself, sweet Goldenflower. There need be no rash action now you are under my protection."

The lady twisted her small porcelain hands in her lap, as if wracked with guilt. She wore an unusual ring; old-looking, and strangely mesmerising. Two startlingly blue eyes peeped up at him through a thick haze of lashes, and Crassius' breath caught in his throat.

"I…" She raised her golden head in stoic resolve. "Forgive me, Ser. I must ask you to disclose to me the whereabouts of the… the Morag Tong."

Crassius was taken aback. The request seemed so at odds with her gentle nature; she must truly be terrified for her life. "I am sure your situation is grave. But sweetling, if such drastic measures must indeed be taken, the Dark Brotherhood would serve you better. The Morag Tong are notoriously xenophobic. The notion of them accepting a contract from a Breton against a Dumner, a man of their own nation, is little short of fantasy."

She bit her full lower lip. "I did consider the Dark Brotherhood, but it is impossible. My, ah, husband… he has connections to them, you see. He would know at once, and they would never agree to harm him. The Morag Tong is my only hope. I thought if I had a recommendation from you, a Great House Councillor, then surely…"

"A complicated dilemma indeed. But my lady… let me take this burden from your shoulders. Such sordid affairs should not trouble the fairer sex. If this is indeed the course you must pursue, then give me your husband's name and I shall arrange everything in the blink of an eye. You need not hear a single whisper of anything to distress you."

She buried her face in her hands. "Oh Ser, you are so gallant… if only I could, but I dare not! I dare not speak his name, even to you; my champion…"

His heart nearly broke for her. "You must not be afraid. You are as safe with me as an Elder Scroll tucked up in the Imperial Library. Truly, my dear, I would not wish such trouble on you – let me be your champion in deed as well as word, and take this task on myself."

She came forward suddenly, rising from her chair and kneeling in front of him, her hands clasped beneath her chin in an attitude of prayer, the firelight reflecting off her ring. "Please," she whispered, the depths of her eyes threatening to drown him. A paper had appeared from nowhere in her hand. "Please, my lord, write a missive of approval that I might take to the Morag Tong. It is all I need. My lord… _Crassius…"_

He was writing before he even knew what he was doing, hypnotised by the sound of his name on her lips.

"Thank you," she breathed, rising from her prostration and ghosting the paper away before he could speak. "Oh, my lord, I cannot thank you enough. You are my saviour, my saviour… I will come again at the wane of the week. Do not forget me, will you, my lord…?"

Crassius found his voice, buried somewhere rather south of his throat. "No… no, sweetling, I don't believe I shall. But you must grant me this: let my guards escort you to a safehouse. It is one of my own, only a minute away. I will have men on the door day and night; no-one shall enter without my leave."

Her eyes filled with crystal tears once more. "Such kindness… Ser, I don't know how I can ever repay you."

"The bell of your sweet voice is all the payment I need, my dear," Crassius crooned, threading her arm though his and leading her to the door. "All the payment I need."

* * *

In the dim light of the disused Corprusarium, six calcinators simmered their varying contents in unison. Above them, with lengths of silk wound around their mouths and noses, bent Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd.

"This is amazing," breathed Gwynabyth. "Amazing! So _complex…_ I would never have guessed how many ingredients went into making this before we broke it down. It's like a room that's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside."

"I thought poetry was _my_ area," Eadwyrd smiled, adjusting the heat below the shallow dish.

"It's almost perfect," Gwynabyth continued, as if in a trance. "The compound for enhanced strength and speed, distilled so the effects of pain and mutation are all but eradicated…" She surfaced from her musings, sighing and shaking her head. "Pity it's not finished."

A voice rang out from the back of the cave. "Not _finished?"_

Their hearts in their mouths, the two alchemists whirled around – only to see Dralasa step out of the shadows, a look of incredulity on her face. Eadwyrd groaned, passing a hand over his eyes.

"Would you mind not _doing_ that? I only have one set of smallclothes, you know."

Gwynabyth pressed a hand weakly to her heart, which had made a valiant attempt to leap out of her chest.

"One day, Azura willing, you will actually be alert and ready to repel a surprise attack," Dralasa commented sourly. "Alas, that day has not come. What did you mean, "not finished"?"

"This elixir," Gwynabyth explained, flushing from the reprimand. "The one Ser Fyr has been developing. It shows only six stages of distillation; the seventh hasn't yet been performed."

Dralasa narrowed her eyes. "You must be mistaken."

"No," Gwynabyth said, stung into bravery by the disparagement of her skills. "I know an incomplete distillation when I see one. This formula needs one more stage to completely eradicate the negative effects of Corprus. As is, it won't keep the mental and physical deterioration completely at bay."

Eadwyrd had moved instinctively closer to his colleague in the face of Dralasa's harsh questioning; seeing the Dunmer's wry observance of this, he coloured and stepped away.

But it didn't take long for Dralasa's expression to dissolve into wicked glee. "Oh, this will be _interesting. _I wonder how long ago that jumped-up self-appointed 'Master' took this death cocktail?"

The alchemists exchanged an exasperated look. They knew better than to expect anything more than a curt rebuff to any requests for explanation.

"But I'm not sure I understand," Dralasa said, cocking her head to the side and regarding the bubbling calcinators.

"Oh poor you, that must be _so_ frustrating," Eadwyrd muttered, provoking a snigger from Gwynabyth.

Dralasa ignored him. "The Nerevarine was cured of Corprus, and I'm sure now that Divayth Fyr was the one to do it. How could he have done so with an unfinished formula? Does this mean the clock's ticking on her, too?"

"That's different," Gwynabyth replied, siphoning some luminescent steam from one of the retorts with a complicated array of glass tubing. "I mean, I can't say for sure, because we've never seen the potion she took. But they're different concepts – if hers was a cure, it would be designed to eliminate the negative effects of the full, already-contracted Corprus. _This_ is intended for use on uninfected people, to contaminate them with specific positive elements of the disease. You see the difference? If the Nerevarine hasn't exhibited any harmful symptoms by now, it's likely she never will."

"So Fyr must have developed the cure first," Dralasa mused, "and hasn't been working on this new formula long enough to perfect it. But then why would he give the Master the all-clear to take it…?"

The alchemists listened eagerly to this rare snippet of information. "Fyr is feeding his servants the unfinished potion? Is he using them as test subjects?"

"Well – no, not exactly." Dralasa looked troubled. "The thing is… I suppose you ought to know, in case I'm detained and you need to report to the Princess yourselves. Divayth Fyr doesn't seem to be here."

Eadwyrd was taken aback. "Not here?"

"No, and none of the servants ever seem to mention him, either. It's disturbing. By all accounts, he is an insular man. Minimal staff apart from his daughters, who I haven't seen either. I can't work out why his staff has suddenly tripled in size, or even what they're doing here in the first place. If I didn't know what a powerful mage Fyr is, I'd suspect foul play."

"Foul play against _Divayth Fyr?"_

"It seems impossible. And yet… these black-robes appear to be a cohesive unit all of their own, operating under this self-appointed Master who unfortunately seems to have helped himself to Fyr's medicine cabinet. He _is_ making reports to a superior; I know that. Whether that person is Fyr or someone else, I cannot say."

"Well, if he's taken the formula, I don't fancy his chances," Gwynabyth said grimly. "The effects will be delayed, but they _will_ come sooner or later, and when they do it won't be pretty."

"Too bad for him." Dralasa pulled her hood back over her face. "I'm going back up; I want to observe the servants with this new information in mind. Do you need any more supplies?"

"I think we're alright for the moment," Gwynabyth said with a grimace. Eadwyrd knew what she was thinking. She liked being stuck in this airless hole even less than he did.

"Keep going on that deconstruction," the spy ordered. "I'll be back tomorrow. Oh, and try to be a little less of an obvious target, will you? If I creep up on you again, throw a pestle at me or something. It vexes me that you're even more a pair of sitting ducks than I took you for, and that's saying a lot."

As she turned to go, Gwynabyth stuck her tongue out at her back. Eadwyrd smirked and smothered a laugh.

"I saw that," came the voice from down the dark tunnel.

* * *

Helseth shuffled some documents.

"You seem to be progressing well," he said amiably, as if he was referring to something as innocuous as planning a party. "I think Tel Fyr has served its use by now, wouldn't you say? I expect we can relocate to Red Moutain within the month. What's the status on the Elixir?"

"It has been a godsend, your Majesty," the Dreamer Master rasped, his voice shaking with fervour. "A bounty sent from Dagoth Ur himself to raise his followers back to glory."

Helseth raised a single eyebrow. Was it his imagination, or were the mer's hands twitching? "…Yes. Of course. You do remember, don't you, that I expressed the particular wish that the Elixir not be distributed until we had made a thorough study?"

"Oh, surely, your Majesty, surely," said the Master with feeling. "This boon must be reserved only for those of the highest order. Those like you and I, your Majesty."

Helseth's lip curled minutely, illustrating with graceful delicacy his distaste in being placed in the same category as the Master, who now seemed to be sweating profusely for no apparent reason.

"Mm," he replied noncommittally. "We have agreed, however, that although the initial effects are impressive, I will not be sampling this… _concoction_ until extensive checks have been made. Once I join you at Red Mountain, I can oversee the process myself." It had been frustrating in the extreme to leave this most fragile alchemical work to the Dreamers, when it was clear his own skill far surpassed theirs. There was no way, though, that he could keep a room-sized still in the North Wing without someone noticing. It had been necessary for the Master to take the Elixir in order to give him the edge over Divayth Fyr, but although the benefits of the Refined Corprus were remarkable, Helseth wasn't going anywhere near the stuff until it had been proven safe.

A pity he hadn't been able to track down those Breton alchemists that he'd heard rumours of in Almalexia a few weeks ago, he thought with annoyance. He'd been keeping a look out for useful talent cropping up in the city, and from the whispers of his informants on the street, these two would be tipped for court alchemist positions when they completed their latest project. Alas, they seemed to have disappeared. He hadn't even found out their names.

The Dreamers would have to do, he thought with distaste, despite their lack of skill. At least they were loyal.

"Your Majesty, you and I shall build the world anew," declared the Master dramatically in a tone that sounded suspiciously like adoration.

Aedra deliver me, Helseth thought in alarm. Perhaps a little _too_ loyal.

* * *

Deaths were being bought and sold in the Balmora chapterhouse of the Morag Tong.

The chaptermaster had been accosted in the lobby by a Breton woman, to his immense surprise. He had begun to firmly but courteously refuse her when she slipped him a note from an extremely high-placed Hlaalu councillor. Intrigued, he had put aside his reservations for the sake of a short interview.

Five minutes had quickly become half an hour.

The woman was really quite something, he grudgingly allowed. He'd never seen such blue eyes. She was clearly of high birth. Her demeanour was graceful and imperious, which he approved of, but just when her haughty attitude might have become tiresome, she showed a spark of tantalising warmth. He found himself drawn in immediately.

"May I suggest a hypothetical scenario?" she posited, her voice clear with authority. "If I had a high profile target that in other circumstances you might be reluctant to contract, would the sum of payment affect your decision?"

The chaptermaster gave a mirthless smile. "That would depend on both the contract and the sum, my lady."

She nodded, a small twitch of playing about her mouth. "We shall discuss the sum first, I believe. I am sure you will find it satisfying. To begin…" she produced a soft velvet pouch from the recesses of her cloakand handed it over. His curiosity stimulated, the chaptermaster undid the silken strings and shook the contents out.

A ruby the size of a kwama egg hit his palm.

For the first time in many years, the chaptermaster was shocked into silence. In the light of the lamps, the gem burned with iridescent fire. It had to be worth thousands of septims. He looked up at the woman, sitting serenely across the desk, and found he had no words.

"This is merely a sweetener," she said softly. "I will pay you as much again in gems and twice as much in gold. Three times as much. I have a sapphire that matches this ruby in size and lustre, if it pleases you." She stroked a hand through her blonde curls and her ornate ring flashed in the light, momentarily blinding him.

So dazzled was the chaptermaster, he forgot for a moment that the identity of the target would be proportionate to the reward. "And what of your contract?"

The smile spread slowly across her lips. "King Hlaalu Helseth."


	23. Of Blood, Wine and Iced Kanet Honey

The King And I

Chapter Twenty-One – For Blood To Be Thicker Than Wine And Iced Kanet-Honey

* * *

At six o' clock sharp in Mournhold, two new servants arrived at the Royal Palace.

One was an Imperial woman of middle age and tall stature. The position of chambermaid had been newly advertised, and although the woman's haughty expression and rigid posture belied such a humble occupation, her credentials were nevertheless satisfactory. She was sent to the laundry rooms immediately.

The other was an unassuming Dunmer, a welcome replacement for the steward who had fallen ill the previous week. Organising the Palace stores was a tiresome and complicated task, and the serving staff had managed badly in his absence. The Dunmer was rushed through the appointment, his papers given, and the cellar keys handed over with undue relief.

As it happened, neither of these new arrivals were aware of each other. If they had been, things might have turned out quite differently.

* * *

The Dren Manor loomed high, like a gloating bully.

Solon worked with swift efficiency. The lock on the Manor's back door was well-made, but no match for his quick fingers. He held the lockpick lightly, as if it was a conductor's baton. After only two minutes, a soft click indicated his success.

"I'll scout the outside," the Dunmer murmured to his companion, checking a catch on his crossbow. "Dren's in Almalexia; the manor will be relatively empty. Try the lower levels. I'll keep the door clear out here, and meet you at the docks when you're done."

Caius nodded, moving away through the house with surprising silence for his build and age.

Solon turned and surveyed the estate. It was dusk, and most of the workers had finished their day on the land. Only few slaves remained in the most distant fields, gathering their harvest into the cork-stores half a mile or so away. A quick once-over the perimeter should do it, he decided. There should be little to disturb them. Rounding the southern aspect of the tall granite exterior, he was afforded a view of the lakeside docks, gently reflecting the dimming light.

There was a boat moored at the nearest quay.

He stopped dead. It was a small craft, sleek and expensively made. He had seen it before, and knew without a doubt to whom it belonged.

Without warning, a sudden burst of primal fear exploded in his chest. The strength of the reaction shocked him; he flattened himself to the wall like a hunted wolf.

"Galos."

Slowly, leaving just enough time to compose the feral wildness on his face, Solon turned to see Orvas Dren outlined by the dusklight.

"How lucky for you, Galos, that I decided to return from Almalexia earlier than expected!" Dren's voice was like the purr of a maneating tiger. "You would have come all this way and found me absent. I would not have you so vexed."

Solon didn't even need to look behind him to know that bodyguards had blocked the gate to the docks. He felt a brief tug as his crossbow was confiscated.

"Shall we?" Dren said mildly, gesturing towards the manor.

He might have a chance against the five guards if he attacked by surprise – at least, his subsequent injuries might not _quite_ prevent his escape. But where to? There was nothing but plantation for miles around, full of Dren's employees, every hand taught to grab at his command… and by the time he had thought all this through, he was being shepherded inside the manor.

The door closed behind him, and the lock turned.

* * *

Dralasa Llethi was frustrated.

Fyr's servants were proving infuriatingly discreet. They rarely, if ever, made casual conversation about their work or their employer – something she had learned quickly to emulate, although the necessity was irksome. How could you get information when no-one was talking?

At least Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd had identified the unfinished Corprus Elixir. It was the one sole progress between the three of them since they arrived. The self-appointed Master had disappeared three days ago, taking his mysteries with him. It wouldn't do. Dralasa had to up the game or her report to Morgiah would be sadly lacking.

There was a commotion at the door. Rushing out of the ground-floor lab, her eyes widening in excitement, Dralasa saw the approaching shape of none other than the Master, trailed by one of his lackeys. He had returned.

Was it her imagination, or was he walking strangely? Had the Elixir begun to turn already? Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. With sudden flash of inspiration, Dralasa seized the Master's luggage and followed him meekly to the second floor. Surely he would say _something _of his travels to his companion.

Lady luck was smiling, for once.

"We will be relocating the entire operation," the Master was ordering. "We no longer have need of this place. Now the Dwemer and the Corprus Victims have been transferred, it has served its use. His Majesty wishes the whole Dreamer contingent relocated to Red Mountain to oversee the final stages."

Dralasa almost dropped the trunk she was carrying.

"Of course, Master," his companion bowed. "What are your orders with regards to Tel Fyr?"

"Seal the estate. I doubt anyone will notice Fyr's absence in any case, at least not for many years – but we must be thorough. The tower will simply fall into ruin. Put out a rumour the place is haunted; that should discourage any stragglers." The Master turned and yanked the trunk from Dralasa's hands. "You may go," he told her abruptly.

She had no choice but to leave, head spinning.

* * *

The North Wing banquet chamber was full of the civil sounds of silverware on china. At a table that was ridiculously too large for the three of them, the Hlaalu Royal Family dined.

Facing the east: Barenziah. Her face was arranged into an expression of polite enjoyment. Against all odds, she'd worn a flower in her hair. It was a sad splash of colour.

Facing the west: Morgiah. The previous morning, she had finally coerced Helseth into agreeing to dinner. He had been surrounded by courtiers; it had been impossible for him to refuse without making a fuss. She couldn't say where the urge had come from. She had a wistful if unrealistic fantasy that if only she could get them in a room together, just the three of them, the last thirty years would melt away and things would somehow be alright.

Facing the north: Helseth. His stare burned into his bone china plate, but his mind was not on the food. His weekly meeting with the Master Dreamer had left him suspicious and disturbed. The man had acted oddly – more oddly, that is, than the average Dreamer behaviour, which was abnormal at the best of times. While discussing Helseth's project, he had begun more frequently to use indelicate terms such as "conquest" and "glory" – not to mention referring to the project as _"our_ mission". Occasionally, his hands would shake.

It was most troubling.

Another bottle of wine was opened by a servant. They had run through three bottles already; it was something to do with your hands, and it made the tension that tiny bit more bearable.

Morgiah held her glass out for the elderly retainer to refill. _Sweet Azura, it's like pulling teeth. _"Brother, who was that charming young thing I saw you entertaining at court today? There are so many faces I am yet to recognise."

Barenziah looked up in interest at the prospect of her son indulging in something as normal as courtship.

Helseth seemed to jolt out of some reverie. "Oh… Lady Andoril's daughter?" He shrugged. "She's just debuted at court. Her mother seems to think that pushing her in my face every two minutes will make me fall in love with her." He sniffed at his glass and wrinkled his nose. "This wine is corked. Othrell, open another one."

"She seemed pleasant enough," Barenziah said lightly, as the servant moved to dispose of the offending glass and fetch a different bottle from the sideboard. "And you should probably be thinking of marriage soon, dear."

"Oh good lord, not to that simpering creature," Morgiah snorted, as Othrell conscientiously tasted the new wine to avoid further complaint.

"I quite agree," Helseth disparaged. "If I wanted wide eyes and a nodding head, I'd keep a cow."

"Well, put her out of her misery, won't you? If she flutters her fan any more coyly I think her hand might atrophy."

Helseth sniggered. Morgiah caught his eye – for one moment, they grinned at each other conspiratorially, revelling in the childish delight of lambasting some hapless social climber behind her back.

Then the servant died.

It happened quietly, as if the elderly retainer was determined to carry his lifelong duty of discretion and neatness even into death. He placed the glass of wine carefully back onto the sideboard so it wouldn't spill, and then sank to the floor with a strangled sigh.

For an entire minute, no-one moved.

Barenziah rose calmly from her chair and walked towards the body. Delicately, she turned the head to reveal a mouth full of sickly white foam. The limbs made jerking movements as the poison slowed in the bloodstream.

Helseth had frozen with his fork halfway to his mouth. His eyes, like raging infernos, turned on Morgiah.

"You… _you…"_ He couldn't even say it.

She was nonplussed, utterly blindsided, before she realised in one horrible moment that he was accusing her. Barenziah narrowed her eyes and reached for her son's arm.

"Helseth-"

"Don't touch me!" he screamed, throwing her off and for a moment looking quite demented. "You – _you-"_

"I am your _sister!"_ Morgiah shouted, sickly fear rising in her throat like bile. They had been _smiling_ together,he had _laughed_ with her… her fingers clutched the edge of the table, white at the knuckles. "How could you even-"

"You've been pestering me about dinner all week!" he bellowed, rising so suddenly that his chair crashed to the ground. "What, are you going to tell me you wanted my _compan_y? I don't even _know_ you any more! _I don't know who you are!"_

His words hit her like a sledgehammer, smashing her heart into a thousand splinters. She could feel the shards in there, stinging, bleeding.

"Helseth," Barenziah snapped, her face nearly as white as her hair. _"Sit down and be quiet. _How you could be so _stupid_ as to turn on your family like this is beyond me; we three must stay united, not–"

"_Don't you ever call me stupid!" _The desert dishes stacked neatly on the sideboard descended to the floor in pandaemonium._ "_The constant undermining, the continuous disregard, always, all the time – I am the _King,_ _I_ _will not abide it!"_

Morgiah was on her feet, blindly staggering around the table. She caught his arms and pulled him down; he lashed out at her, a terrible wildness in his eyes, like a bear in a trap. They fell to their knees amid the scattered silver and broken glass.

"Stop it!" Barenziah cried, the alien note of distress in her voice worse than any painful scream. _"Stop it!"_

His wrists were in her hands, her fingernails digging into the flesh so hard they almost drew blood. She forced his arms down, their faces inches apart. "I am your sister," she hissed. _"I – am – your – sister."_

Their harsh panting filled the room, a room in which silence now hung like an axe. For one awful, horrific moment, she thought he might cry. What she would have done then, she could not even conceive. But in the next instant he composed himself, the fire in his eyes dimming and his mouth forming a hard, emotionless line.

"Yes," he said dully. "Yes, I suppose you are."

The splinters moved in her heart again. What if she told him, right now, all she knew? What if she laid it all on the table and begged him to stop and told him that there was no need, he had them, he had _her,_ and they could start afresh and this would all be a forgotten nightmare? In a flash, flick-flick-flick, her mind filled with images she couldn't control or contain – Helseth with bloodied fingers in a room full of broken furniture, Helseth on a dark dais with his head bowed, Helseth lying on a slab surrounded by candles…

Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

Coward. You think you are so strong and clever? You're a stupid little girl; you're a coward.

Hesleth, unaware of her mental struggle, was caught up in his own. "Who?" he rasped.

"I don't know, but we _will_ find out," Barenziah said grimly. "Triple your guard. I'll put my own men on the doors."

Helseth stood abruptly, burning like a sullen fire.

"Get rid of it," he said coldly, indicating the body of the dead servant. Without another word, he left the ruined room. The door slammed behind him.

Morgiah closed her eyes, heart thumping. "Did you do it?" Barenziah whispered, her features strained to breaking point.

Her rage flared like a brand. "Of _course_ not! That you even have to _ask…!"_

Her mother nodded. "Good. We will find out who did. I will round up the kitchen staff at once." She picked up her skirts to avoid the scattered food. "You should retire. I will send a man up to clean the room." And then she, too, was gone.

Morgiah knelt alone, surrounded by the debris of the meal she had worked so hard for Helseth to attend. Anger coursed through her like a snake; fury, confusion, fear. There was some new player in this game, someone she did not have control over. Her skin felt unpleasant, prickly, as if she was being watched. Some new player wanted Helseth dead. How dare they, how _dare_ they? He was not theirs to kill.

Her eyes fell on a ruined delicacy dripping stickily from its silver dish onto the gilt carpet. Iced kanet-honey, Helseth's favourite. She had ordered it specially when he accepted her invitation to dinner. The desert was soaking into the carpet now, melted, ruined.

She got to her feet slowly, stepped over the mess and followed her mother.

* * *

When you look into the night sky, you see Oblivion.

There is much to be learned from this plane of secrets, where the Daedra weave their domains and the dead pass by like smoke. Unlike Aetherius, Oblivion cannot be shaped by human hands. Form and face have no meaning here; all is fluid, all is inconstant. To perceive a person in Oblivion could be to perceive anything – one man might be a green valley, another a hard bright sun, another a coloured room in a building you can't see in a city that never existed.

But there is always the Doorway.

It is everywhere, yet nowhere. It is never far away. It is both microscopic and so vast that it swallows the universe. And through it filters the smoke of the dead, slowly and eternally, seeping out of the confines of the world.

Look: do you see?

At the precipice of the ghostfall that pours through the Doorway, a flame lingers. It is bright, so bright it hurts the eyes, like a knife that shears this realm of Daedra and dead in two. This flame is strong.

It is clinging, with the injustice of an unworthy death and the strength of four thousand years, to the living side of the Doorway. For how long it has been clinging is irrelevant; time has no meaning here; the flame might have appeared a second ago, or six months, or a millennia. It endures. Souls have been _trapped _here before, oh yes, but nothing has ever _clung _by merely its own ferocious strength of will. Moment by agonised moment, it holds its brightness against the stream of smoke that pours, like a black hole, through the fabric of reality.

This flame has a secret to tell, a warning to give. And he will cling to the precipice of death until inch by inch, his four thousand years of experience will find him a way to edge back into life, and to revenge.


	24. Interlude 9 The Bargain

The King And I

Chapter Twenty-Two – Interlude Nine; What Became Of The Bargain

* * *

_Firsthold, Summurset Isle, Sun's Dawn 3E 406. It is twenty-three years before the present day. Morgiah is 30._

* * *

It is curious how quickly and drastically a life can change. How little time it takes for everything to become totally unfamiliar, totally alien.

She would get used to it, Morgiah thought. She must.

Travel by magic was always disorientating, and it was worse the further you were sent. There was no sense of _distance._ One moment you were in a place that had been your home for over twenty years, and then snap – you were a thousand miles away, everything was different, and it had only taken a second. It was less noticeable with Scourg Barrow because the place always did seem like a dream, something she could wake up from and find herself back in her little study in Wayrest Palace with its plush carpet and newly-laid fire, the familiar sight of the privet-maze through the latticed window.

Everything was different now.

It had been tricky to arrange the first leg of her journey to Firsthold. Barenziah had naturally wanted to give her daughter a proper sendoff. She had been confused to learn that Morgiah would not be travelling entirely by sea – after all, the Royal family owned some luxurious galleys, and it was by far the quickest and most efficient route. Morgiah had spun some yarn about wanting to sightsee in Hammerfell and catch a boat from Hegathe, and hope to Stendarr her mother wouldn't penetrate the weak deceit.

Whether she did or not, she didn't comment. Perhaps she sensed her daughter's reluctance to involve her in her plans, and had backed off in respect of her wishes. Or, Morgiah thought with a rare uncomfortable squirm of guilt, Barenziah was hurt by her sudden coldness and had given up trying to play the loving mother. She hadn't wanted it to be that way, but what could she do? She could hardly tell her the truth.

She took a small retinue, including Karethys, and made a stop in the town of Thorstad near a big wooden house with a wrought-iron veranda. At one hour past midnight, someone in a dark cloak left the royal carriage, disappeared through the wooden door, and did not return. The next day the party moved on, and the Princess requested she not be disturbed on account of feeling ill. The lights in her carriage were dimmed, and she spent most of the time with a cool cloth obscuring her face.

Karethys had been most useful, Morgiah mused. Dunmer were not a common sight in the Iliac Bay. It was lucky she happened to have one in her entourage who bore a remarkable resemblance to her in height, colouring and voice.

When she had materialised from the Thorstad meeting-house into Scourg Barrow, the King was waiting for her. The Great Hall was empty; she could not even sense the liches that usually flanked the walls. Their absence gave the place an unusual atmosphere of expectation, of wariness, of warning. And then he had held out his hand to her.

It was gloved, of course, but she still felt as if lightning was crackling down her spine when she took it.

In all their years of acquaintance, they had never touched. She realised she'd had the absurd notion that he might be insubstantial, like smoke; as if up to now, their meetings had been some bizarre fiction of her own making. With one touch of his incongruously normal hand – oh, why was the normality so _maddening?_ She was fighting the urge to scream at him, hit him, why was he so Akatosh-damned _normal_, it was enough to drive you insane – with that one touch, it all suddenly became real. And for one moment she wondered where she was, and what the hell she was doing.

It was too late, of course.

* * *

What she chiefly remembered of those first glimpses of Firsthold was the brightness. It was everywhere – even the palest sunbeam became a brand, refracted a thousand times through myriad wrought-glass panels; the walls, the towers, the minarets, the domes. All glass, all beautiful. All alien.

She was still recovering, blind and disorientated, when she heard the low murmuring of voices beside her. Her sight sharpened to reveal the tired, worn face of an Altmer man, regarding her with a mixture of concern and incredulity. He had the gaunt appearance of someone pushed to the limit of physical and emotional reserves.

"But surely you have not brought her _now?"_ His voice was soft and well-spoken, but currently strained to breaking point. "I agreed to your bargain, but really, this is too much! The poor girl _cannot_ be exposed to this! Couldn't you have waited until everything has been dealt with?"

"I assure you, she is not going to wilt like an unwatered rose at the mere suggestion of your predicament, Reman," came the acerbic reply. "The Princess is here for a reason. She happens to be integral to our operation."

The Altmer's face coloured with shock. "By Auriel – you cannot mean – no, this is madness! You cannot endanger an innocent woman in such a way; I will not allow it!"

'Innocent woman', 'poor girl' – she must look like a simpering idiot, Morgiah realised. _Pull yourself together, you stupid creature_. No wonder Reman seemed so appalled.

"Then your son will meet a most unfortunate end," the King replied carelessly. "I will be taking my Amulet with the Princess' help or without it, Reman, and I'm sure you would infinitely prefer the result of her participation to mine."

He looked wrong in the sun, she realised. She found she didn't want to look at him directly. The daylight somehow diffused around him, creating a haze of greyness that was unpleasantly difficult to focus on, knifing a sharp pain behind her eyes. It had not been this way in the candlelight of the meeting-room at Scourg Barrow. Different, everything was different. She turned away. _Pull yourself together._

She fell back on etiquette. "Your Majesty," she greeted Reman smoothly, making an elegant curtsey. He took her hand gently as if she might break, pity in his brown eyes. She felt a sting of annoyance at the patronising expression; it overpowered her unease, bringing clarity back to her mind. That was good; she needed it now.

"Amazing," the King said dryly. "All these years I've been lucky to get a nod of the head out of you, Princess, and now you drop him a curtsey as if you do it every day. What, I wonder, would I have to do to elicit such courtesy?"

"Marry me?" Morgiah said lightly. "Look, shouldn't we be getting on? It's late."

He laughed, but though she usually loved the surge of power she felt in eliciting that response, this time there was a deep timbre to the sound that crawled over the glass of the courtyard like a stalking beast. Why had it suddenly changed? Was it Reman? Was he putting on a show for him? The Altmer king certainly seemed frozen, horrified by the casualness of their banter.

"With no further ado, then," said the King. His words fell to the ground like spiders. Reman had become paralysed, rooted to the spot in fear and revulsion.

The King of Worms raised his staff and began to score a symbol in the ground. Darkness seeped through the gash, like blood from a wound.

It had begun.

* * *

Morgiah ran. Oblivion spun.

It was nothing like she had expected. The mind, when confined to the body, cannot visualise anything without two or three-dimensional form, but here – _here_ – there was no dimension at all. Forms were ideas. Ideas created reality. There was everything, everything to experience, but you did not see because you had no eyes. You did not hear because you had no ears… Yet she found, afterwards, that she couldn't describe it without using the words touch or feel or see. It was impossible.

Colours and lights flashed by, like frantic birds.

It was hard to focus, but she thought she was in a series of rooms. They poured by like water; endless doors, opening and closing. She ran, letting instinct guide her. She ran with no feet, no body, no nothing.

_Do not stop,_ echoed the King's voice in her head. _Do not speak to anyone or anything. Do not stop, do not tarry, even for a moment._

He had left her at the threshold. He had become a thing of smoke, of shadow, something she didn't recognise, something she didn't know. A nightmare. His words were heavy and laboured, rasping like stone over stone, each one struggling to reach the air – and yet there was a note of urgency in his tone that she had not heard from him before.

_Remember the name: Tellanaco. Names have power. If you do not have the name, you cannot give him anything real, only make a meaningless puppet, a thrall. Remember the name and do not stop, do not tarry, even for a moment._

She ran.

Images flashed, stolen glimpses through the doors that poured by, fifty one hundred a thousand, like a river. There were things behind them. People, scenes, moments. There was the shape of a woman in a room where each wall was a different colour. There was a deep red glow and the sting of sulphurous heat. There was a garden, dark with fog, where things crept across the oily grass. There was an endless dawn sky with the faintest pinprick of stars, or was it dusk?

And sometimes she caught a glimpse of what was really happening and knew that there was none of it at all, only an endless expanse of darkness where the twilight shades of souls fell past like the arc of a waterfall, inexorable, unstoppable.

On and on, flash flash flash – but there was a door, and before she could swerve away, she was through it…

The madness of the river-flow images stopped temporarily, and she found she wasn't running any more.

There was someone here. The light was grey, dull – it had a curious quality that blurred everything but the remarkably unremarkable man standing before her.

"Hello," he said pleasantly. "Are you looking for something?"

He had pale red hair and was dressed sensibly in waistcoat and fine-tooled boots, like a respectable shop owner. Or a banker.

"You look lost," he continued mildly. "Would you like some help?"

She hesitated, trying to remember how to speak with no mouth.

He took a step towards her. "You're very odd-looking, did you know that?"

All in a moment, she tasted an acrid chemical tang in the air; a metallic foulness that burned the eyes she didn't have. A terrible fear gripped her – and the King was screaming, screaming in her ear, _do not stop, do not speak to anyone or anything, do not stop even for a moment, do not stop, do not tarry, do not stop…_

The man was smiling. She backed away and swiped out with hands that weren't hands – but still he came on, and the smile was _wrong._

She swiped again, dodged, lurched to the side, and fell…

And then she was back in the river-rush, and she had to run or else be swept away.

She wondered how close to death she had just come. Or worse.

Unending doors, flash flash flash. She was forgetting what the real world looked like. Or _was_ it the real world, after all? Was _this_ place the real world, and the other one a dream, and everything she knew backwards?

She ran.

This wasn't right, she could feel it. She shouldn't be here. The rooms and doors were wrong; she would run through them for ever, on and on, until there was nothing of her left or until she found someone or something else, and this time wasn't quick enough to escape. This was wrong. She must do something.

With a wrench that pulled her invisible heart from her nonexistent chest, Morgiah stood still.

A flare of light blazed around her, and there was a screeching, a terrible wail of mechanical agony, as if the world was throwing its axis. The doors crumpled like tin; the walls writhed and screamed, and _then–_

Then all was darkness, the dusky shapes of the dead, and the thing that hung in the air before her. And it was quiet. Quiet like infinity.

The dead poured on.

The thing before her was a small lantern. It burned with a grim, faint pulse. Something about it made her think of soldiers who take slow and shallow breaths, because their wounds are so great that even breathing is torture. Below the lantern was a _thing_ on a chain that glowed with quiet, appalling malevolence.

I am not afraid of you, she thought. I am going to speak. I am going to speak NOW.

_Tellanaco._

The word came as if from a long way away. Her voice sounded strange, like the ring of a bell; the name lingered and strengthened, rising, unravelling.

She had practised the Soul Trap spell many times in the last month, knowing she had scant time to become proficient and worrying it would not be enough. Her fears seemed insignificant now. She realised she was towering over the lantern, the Amulet, the dusky dead, over everything. She spoke the spell, watching it encase the lantern like a cage and lift it up, the chained pendant falling away like a fish-hook losing its prey.

She reached out and took her First artefact. It tingled in her palm.

A word later and the Soul Trap was dispelled, its purpose served, breaking apart and evaporating like mist. The flame in Tellanaco's lantern shivered and died.

Morgiah's laugh echoed though the abyss like a flock of birds taking wing.

* * *

_What did I look like?_ she had asked him much later, when she remembered the words of the man in the grey room, how Tellanaco had been a lantern, and the King's smoke and shadow at the threshold.

He had cocked his head to one side, and hadn't spoken for a long while. The Amulet gleamed beneath the fastening of his cloak. She thought he was smiling.

Finally, he put down his glass and steepled his fingers. _What do __**you**__ think you looked like?_

_I didn't bring my looking-glass, unfortunately, _she had lamented dryly.

He had laughed at that. The laugh did not make her spine crawl, as it had in the courtyard with Reman. It made her glad. It was easy to forget how different it had been, that day in Firsthold.

But he never answered her question, and she didn't ask again.

* * *

**A/N: **Next chapter is all yours, **bhen**! x


	25. The Burning Heart & The Burning Building

**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to **bhen**. x

* * *

The King And I

Chapter Twenty-Three – The Burning Heart And The Burning Building

The Dren Manor comprised far more than the outside walls lead one to believe. Below the respectable upper levels, an extensive network of cellars, corridors and basements ran far into the ground.

Caius crept along, cursing his jingling chainmail. He should have worn leather. Not that it seemed to matter at the moment – the dark corridors appeared deserted, with lamps lit only at corners and junctures. Doors punctuated the darkness at regular intervals; whenever he passed one, he opened it a crack and checked inside.

He wasn't having much luck so far. He'd made a cursory sweep of the top floors before taking Solon's advice and heading downstairs. Morgiah had tasked them with finding and destroying Dren's spy reports, but these rooms seemed to hold anything but paper. Once, he opened a door on some grisly chair-like contraption with pincer attachments suspended above. Shuddering, he moved on.

Just when he thought the cellars had been a dead loss and resolved to retreat back to the ground floor, he opened the last door and came face-to-face with the fruition of his search.

His heart skipped a beat with despair. The room was vast, cramped full of shelves, every one piled to the top with sheaves of paper. He'd been expecting perhaps a deskful; this was more like an ocean. How the hell was he supposed to root out reports on Morgiah from this mess?

There was the sound of steel sliding on leather behind him, and his Blades training kicked in like a steam centurion. Drawing his shortsword in one fluid motion, he whirled round and felt the clash of blades sting all the way up his arm.

Two of them. Oh Stendarr, there were two of them.

He should have known Dren would never be so foolish as to leave the place unmanned. The two guards were masked, covered in supple boiled leather from head to toe. Caius was suddenly acutely aware of his aging chainmail and the gaps it left around his neck and arms.

One of them lunged at him; he parried instantly, noting with relieved surprise that his reflexes hadn't suffered too badly from his long reprieve. The guards fought methodically; they were well-trained, but seemed unimaginative and predictable. They were evidently complacent in their advantage of numbers, and perhaps he could use that to his benefit… his thoughts went suddenly to a brawl that had broken out in the South Wall Corner Club two years ago…

The first guard yelped in surprise as his supposedly tired, over-the-hill opponent grabbed a nearby chair with the speed of a demented nix hound and brought it down over his back with a resounding _crack_. He crumpled to the floor, and then Caius was on the second guard like a terrier.

The shelves of paper muffled the fight – Caius could hear the ragged panting of his own breath, the grunts and thumps and clashes of fists and swords, but the sounds fell flat in the claustrophobic space. Taking full advantage of his bar-room experience, he slammed a mailed elbow into a masked face and was rewarded with a smothered cry. A white-hot trail burned along his left arm; he'd left himself open. Ducking and spinning round, he thrust his sword under the remaining guard's reach and into his belly.

Then there was only the flickering of the lamps, and the steady drip drip drip of blood.

Caius fell against the wall, gasping. Red stained the chainmail of his upper arm, and the knee he'd injured in service years ago was sending darts of pain up his leg. The two bodyguards lay sprawled at his feet, one run through, the back of the other's head bloody.

As he stood panting, the first guard's hand moved to grasp feebly at Caius' ankle, the bones of her cracked skull moving grotesquely as she did so. "Give me–" Her voice was lost as she choked, a trickle of red running down her chin. "Give – me–"

Caius understood, and knelt down to cut the mer's throat. His heart felt heavy in his chest.

He looked around the room. This mission had taken a severe turn for the worse; he'd killed two people, and there was no time to search laboriously through these shelves for any mention of Morgiah. It would take days; weeks, even.

_By any means necessary,_ the Princess' voice echoed in his head.

He lifted the lamp from the bracket on the wall, took a last look at the bodies on the floor, then smashed the glass into the shelves and watched the flames engulf them.

* * *

As they escorted him to the top floor, Solon felt something odd. If he had to put a name to it, it would be anticipation.

He was used to enjoying people's company, of course. He enjoyed it in a very methodical, precise way, finding pleasure in observing their habits, their cadences. He was not, however, familiar with these things affecting him in any meaningful manner.

He thought back to the time before he had left the Manor with Nenya. Admittedly, he could have been guilty of… encouraging Dren. Perhaps. Slightly. They had talked together on a number of evenings, and he had found the Tong leader intelligent and interesting. There was an intensity to his demeanour that drew Solon in.

In his deepest darkest thoughts, he admitted that he _may_ have begun to respond in kind. At the time, this notion had been so disturbing that he had convinced himself that attention from Dren was an unnecessary risk to his career. Nenya had given him the perfect excuse to turn tail and disappear. Pretend it had never happened.

Now though, with the situation inescapably before him, he couldn't help feel a twinge of fascinated expectation despite the niggling survival instinct that was whispering _trapped, caged, trammelled_. Perhaps, for once in his life, it was all right to not be fully in control…?

"Leave us," Dren commanded his men. They retreated, shutting the door behind them.

"You've been running for a while," Dren addressed him inscrutably. "Urgent business of your own, or are you just sampling being a fugitive?"

Solon shrugged. "A free agent may go where they will, or so I understood."

Dren's gaze burned into him like a brand. "You left without a word. If I were an unreasonable man, I'd take that for an insult."

Solon's excitement began to fade. Dren's voice contained the same intensity he remembered, but there was an edge to it that hadn't been obvious before. Something unpleasant.

He opted for neutrality. "That's a rather personal reaction to a simple parting of colleagues."

"And a Princess' protection, too," Dren said very softly. "That was clever. I wonder exactly what service you are performing for her?"

Solon was silent; what could he possibly say? 'I'm here to ransack your headquarters'? Alarm bells were ringing in his head very loudly now.

"I expect loyalty from those in my employ." Dren was glaring now.

"I am no longer in your employ."

The words had hardly left his lips when Dren pushed him so hard that the breath was punched from his chest. Solon crashed against the wall, splintering the table behind him. The physical sally was so unexpected that his mind went blank with shock.

"Why? _Why _aren't you? Do you have some complaint about the way I treated you?"

Solon could only stare, blood beginning to ooze from a gash in his arm.

"If the Princess forced you to work for her you should have told me. I could have hidden you. What made you go to _her?"_ He lunged forwards and grabbed Solon's wrist, twisting it in his grasp. The mer could only gape soundlessly.

The truth suddenly hit Solon like a wrecking ball: he had fatally misjudged Dren. He, with all his precious scientific observation, had been duped. And now he was going to pay for it.

"You work for _me,"_ Dren snarled. "For _me._ You are _mine."_

He slammed Solon against the wall and crushed their lips together.

Solon could taste blood in his mouth. His arm was pinned above his head; a dull ache blazed in his wrist. Dren's other hand came up and wrapped around his throat, crushing like a vice and digging his nails into the skin. Solon choked as his air ran thin, and his body finally came to life in sheer panic. He wedged his arm between them and elbowed the other mer viciously in the solar plexus.

Dren staggered away, gasping for breath. His eyes were like pits of fire, but a smile was starting to form at the corner s of his mouth.

Solon raised a hand to his neck, checking methodically for damage to his windpipe. Calm… at all costs he must stay calm. He may not be stronger than Dren, but he was faster. It was only the shock that was debilitating him. Calm, calm.

_Keep him occupied, _his survival instinct whispered, beginning to function at long last._ Keep him distracted. For Dagon's sake keep him talking. You stupid, you __**stupid…**_"How did you know I was in the Capital?"

"_Some_ of my employees still make an effort to oblige me, Galos. Especially when it comes to information I offer a considerable reward for." He came forward as if magnetically pulled. The smile became stronger. "Or is it Dram Saryoni, or Solon Gothren? You've lied about so many things, it's hard to keep them all straight."

_Keep him talking._ "You put a bounty on me."

"Of course."

"And who was lucky enough to claim it?"

The smile was wider now. "Someone gave me what I needed all right, but I wouldn't call her _lucky._ Pleasant, was she?"

Solon was silent, waiting for him to explain.

"What, you don't remember your little whore in Almalexia? We caught up with her just outside the city. She seemed reluctant to impart any information, but fortunately I am a persuasive man."

Dread sparked up anew, making his skin crawl.

Dren was close again. Slowly, he drew something out of his pocket and held it up, something that glinted like copper silk in the lamplight. His face full of vindictive triumph, he tossed the thing aside and reached out, hands closing around Solon's arms like pincers, pressing into the wound made by the broken table.

The object was a lock of hair, torn as if pulled from a head. Solon thought of Felara Ules' mischievous eyes, the confident toss of her curls and the wicked passion in her voice, and his heart felt like a dead weight.

Dren was leaning in. When he was close enough to touch, Solon's fingers found the foot-long splinter that had broken off the table in his fall. Numbly – but he had been numb all his life, hadn't he? – he reached his arm around the Tong leader's back. Dren thought he was moving to embrace him, and a thrill of triumph crept over his face.

When the wooden spike found its mark, Solon knew he would remember the disbelief and betrayal in Dren's eyes for a long, long time.

* * *

In the light of the hearth-fire, Goldenflower gazed at Crassius like a plaintive angel.

"I did not wish for it to come to this," the lady whispered, tears brimming from her blue eyes. "It is a necessity. I – I am so afraid…"

"Now now, my dear," he soothed, crossing to her chair and kneeling before her. He took her slender fingers in his, patting the back of her hand, his fingers brushing her ornate ring. "No tears; we can't have that! No one will touch you in the house I've put aside for you. My guards are on the door day and night. It is an unpleasant business, sweetling, and I lament that you insisted on arranging the particulars yourself – I would have done it all for you, had you allowed me."

She looked at him with shy gratitude. "I felt I could not hide behind champions to do this deed. Though I owe my husband little, my honour dictates that if I must truly do this thing, the order should come from me alone."

"Ah, so noble a maid!" Crassius extolled, rising from his position to take a bottle of deep crimson liquid from the cabinet. "Sweetling, you are weary and your heart is in pain. Take a little of this plum brandy; it will calm your nerves." Pouring a glass for her, he set it on the mantlepiece and helped her to a more comfortable seat by the fire.

"Now," he pacified, handing her the glass, "Drink deep, my blossom, and let go your worries."

She obeyed him, visibly trying to master herself. It seemed natural to put a comforting arm around her shoulders. She turned to look at him, eyes full of vulnerable trust, and he simply couldn't resist.

Crassius tilted her chin up and discovered what the plum brandy tasted like.

* * *

News of the fire at the Dren Plantation spread fast. The workers panicked as the blaze crept from one building to the next. Only very few had the presence of mind to send for help or organise a water-chain from the dock, and by the time the first buckets arrived it was already too late.

One of the more sensible workers was herding the rest behind a cluster of cork-stores away from the smoke, while another group futilely doused the flames. A huddle of Argonian slaves stood some way away, their eyes reflecting the flames without a trace of remorse.

An overseer stood as near to the burning buildings as was safe without catching alight, waving his arms to the others, shouting _"__The manor isn't empty! We must help! Come back!"_

Caius was nearly out of the gates, but the shout hit him like a bucket of ice. _Don't be an idiot,_ he told himself roughly, _He's got it wrong. __No-one was inside, least of all Gothren. He'll be at the dock as planned._ But then who? Dren was away, and the only other people had been the two guards he'd killed.

He caught the arm of a mercenary making haste for the gateway. "Hey! You know what he's talking about? Who's in there? I thought Dren was out til Mourndas?"

The mercenary spat onto the ground; he had a split lip, possibly from the crush to get away from the blaze. "Came back early, didn't he? Saw him drag some mer up to the second floor, poor bastard. Canny looking thing – dark hair, crossbow. Dunno whether they're out." He shook his arm roughly from the other man's grasp, disappearing towards the docks.

_You fool,_ Caius thought, horror washing over him. _You stupid, damnable fool – you should have checked the building! _

He turned back, running towards the flames that now reached twenty feet to the darkening sky.

The main entrance when he reached it was impassable. He sprinted round the back to the rickety walkway that lead to the first floor balcony, feeling it creak under his feet. The door was mostly glass. He smashed it with a mailed fist, and then he was inside, choking on blackness.

"Gothren!" he shouted, his voice cracked and rasping.

Squeezing his eyes shut against the smoke, he blundered through the first floor. _"Gothren!"_

Along another hellish corridor, feeling into the blackness with outstretched hands, tripping on some stairs, crawling up them, into another room… this was hell, this was utter hell…

There was a dark shape on the floor.

"Gothren!" barked Caius, stumbling and half-falling on the mer. But there was something terribly wrong – Solon was sitting hunched over, and sprawled on the floor beside him was… surely not? Dren – with a _stake_ in his back?

"_Solon!"_ Caius snapped, grabbing the Dunmer's arm and trying to drag him to his feet. "Get up – we've got to get out of here – what's _wrong_ with you, for pity's sake? Come _on_ –"

But Solon was a dead weight, though he was alive enough – his eyes were open, but they were numb and glazed as if with shock. Caius hauled him up, but his protesting knee screamed out and the two of them fell back. The floorboards creaked ominously; smoke was filtering through the cracks, and they were hot to the touch.

Caius heaved at Solon once more, but the mer seemed incapable of independent movement.

"_Get up,_ you stupid elf!" Caius raged, fear shooting through his voice. Solon looked up at him with blank eyes.

Caius hit him. Hard.

It worked. Solon stumbled back into the wall and seemed to come to life; he spat out a mouthful of blood and limped to his feet.

"You bastard," he croaked, his voice coated with smoke.

"Shut up!" gabbled Caius, almost sick with relief. "No time! Got to get out – come on, come _on_, you idiot –"

He grabbed his arm and heaved him upright. Solon did not look back into the room. Behind them, Dren's silent body had begun to smoulder.

They staggered into the dark corridor, supporting each other in turn. Caius' knee was in agony. Tension lay like an iron bar across his neck and shoulders. _It's alright,_ he repeated like a mantra, _it's alright, we'll get out, we're nearly there… nearly there…_

He felt the floor give way.

There was an awful moment when the sounds around him tuned out, and he realised exactly what was going to happen, and that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Then the sounds came back in a roar, and the floor collapsed.

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you again for your reviews. **Clodia**, thank you so much for commenting yet again - and you encapsulated perfectly what I'd hoped to achieve with the family banquet with the "optimistic flower". I'm so pleased you thought it was poignant. Oh and **Will**... don't miss a trick, do you? :)


	26. The Gathering Dark

**A/N: Bhen**, I remember posting that section too, and I'm just as amazed as you that I ever reached this point! I knew it would be pretty distant, but I didn't think it would actually be years away :D Plodding ever onwards! **Clodia**, thank you also - about your armour-types comment, I believe there _is_ an oblique effect, although there's no visual or aural indicator. In Oblivion, sneaking is apparently harder with heavy armour than it is with light armour - although that might be the mods I'm using. Morrowind, afaik, has no such system - although I might be misremembering. I leant it to a friend a couple of years ago so I haven't had a chance to play it since - I've been working off three-year old memories, which will probably show sooner or later!

It's quite nice to get to a bit of action for a change, since 80% of this story seems to be people talking at eachother from behind desks. One day I'm going to count every desk scene and shock myself out of the habit, haha. That said, enjoy! x

* * *

The King And I

Chapter Twenty-Four – The Gathering Dark

* * *

The fire at the Dren Estate raged on and on. The water-chain from the docks had been abandoned; the workers fled, slaves slipping through the chaos to freedom. There was no hope now. There could be no-one living in that hideous inferno.

In the gathering dark, the gods play dice. They play dice with people's lives, and this time, two deaths become two narrow misses. This time, someone wins.

Caius found himself hanging in mid-air, blinded with pain but alive. He'd fallen with the floor – a piece of it was sticking into his leg – and the rest of him was caught on a broken length of banister and on Solon respectively, both of which were clinging to the only remaining portion of the corridor. With the floor gone, the full force of the fire leapt up around them at once, and Caius' legs and back were scorched and smarting. His clothes would catch at any moment.

Solon was better off, although he was currently the only thing between Caius and certain death, and he was dizzy from shock and smoke inhalation. But Dunmer have lived for centuries in the ash storms of Red Mountain, so with his free hand he wrapped his cloak around his mouth, and with his other he began to pull, shoulders cracking and legs weak, dragging Caius to safety. The remaining floorboards groaned and protested, but they held. Caius clung to them and inched himself up, splinters driving into the palms of his hands.

After a minute that seemed like an hour, they were both crouched on the ledge. The Imperial was fighting to stay conscious – neither him nor the ledge would last long. Solon looked around swiftly and saw something that made his heart leap.

He grabbed Caius' shoulder. "There's a way out!" he gasped hoarsely. "The floor's taken part of the wall with it – I can see the ground. But we'll have to jump."

Caius nodded grimly, too spent to answer. Slowly, they shuffled closer to the wall.

"Ready?" Solon rasped. Before they lost their nerve, he grasped his companion's arm and tugged. They jumped.

Caius' knee finally gave way with a sickening crack; Solon landed on a piece of fallen masonry and took most of the skin off his shoulder. Together, they managed to crawl, limp and drag themselves away from the wreckage. At all costs they mustn't be found, or the fire suspected to be anything other than a terrible accident.

It seemed to take years, but drawing on reserves of strength they hadn't known they possessed, the orange glow from the manor finally dwindled and disappeared behind the hill. Caius fell to the ground and passed out.

Solon stumbled next to him, not even noticing their chosen resting-place was half in the edge of the lake, and followed suit.

* * *

Gwynabyth cried out in alarm and dropped her ounce-measure as Dralasa barrelled into the disused living-room of Tel Fyr's Corprusarium.

"Pack up," the spy hissed. "Empty the stills; you'll have to leave the equipment. Throw the dust-sheet over them. Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes, do you hear?"

"What's going on?" demanded Eadwyrd, shaken by her urgency.

"We're going back to Mournhold," Dralasa ordered. "I've finally heard the Master talking, and if I'm not mistaken, Fyr is _dead._ This is worse than I'd ever dreamt. Divayth didn't move the Corprus victims, the black-robes did; they're following the King's orders – and to top it off, they're Dreamers. Sixth House cultists."

The alchemists were gaping, silent, unable to process this shocking barrage of information.

"They're sealing the entire estate and moving to Red Mountain," Dralasa said, already throwing random belongings of Gwynabyth's into a satchel. "I'm going for a last check round the building, then we'll use Morgiah's scrolls. I don't need to tell you how important this is, so _get a move on."_

She tossed the now-bulging satchel to Gwynabyth, who fumbled and nearly dropped it. "I'll be back in quarter of an hour. Get your stuff and meet me near the Corprusarium entrance, understand?"

She threw the remaining satchel at an astonished Eadwyrd, and was gone before they even had time to speak.

* * *

Bomba 'Lurrina was feeling strange.

Almalexia was coming into view, the great fortified wall of the city encroached on by sepia-coloured slums that clung, limpet-like, to the outer façade. These mini-provinces of poverty stretched near five miles into the surrounding countryside, lining the roadways with shabby stalls and mazte-sinks. The poor had refuge here; Almalexia was the mother-goddess, the merciful triune. While in Blacklight or Necrom the hovels might be razed to the ground when the squalor began to offend the nobles, no home, however fetid, would be destroyed here.

As she walked, Bomba 'Lurrina's vision seemed to blur until she was not only approaching the gates of Almalexia, but of Orsinium, Daggerfall, Wayrest, Sentinel, the Imperial City… the many journeys of her life swam before her eyes like the hazy visions of a skooma-dream. She had arrived at a hundred and one city gates in her life, but had she had not once felt as if she were coming home.

Why did she have this gnawing emptiness in the pit of her stomach?

It was not as if she minded being a nomad; she had been born in the Noquin-Al desert of Elsweyr, where migration was a way of life. She had not returned to her homeland for many years now, of course, but the wanderlust was in her blood. So what could it be?

Nenya had disembarked at Old Ebonheart, citing a desire to return to Balmora. The Nord woman had been quiet for the remainder of their voyage from Omayni; uncharacteristically so. She hadn't stated her reasons for this sudden desire to return to Vvardenfell, but the Khajiit could make a good enough guess. She suspected Nenya would make a beeline for a certain Spymaster's dilapidated house.

It had been strange to watch her leave. Having spent the better part of three weeks entirely in each others' company, Bomba 'Lurrina had not noticed how quickly she had become used to the girl's presence. The Khajiit had always been a loner; it was part of the reason the Emperor had chosen her as his agent. Secrecy demands isolation. But Nenya had got under her skin, creeping in without her noticing… and now she was gone, there was an uncomfortable empty space that Bomba had never realised existed.

The gates of Almalexia loomed above. She passed under them with the usual crush of merchants, tourists, pilgrims and homecomers, musing on how one could be surrounded by people and still feel so totally alone.

* * *

The mood in the Corprusarium had taken a distinct turn for the worse.

Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd were huddled under an alcove of rock in the tunnel leading to the main house, waiting for Dralasa. It was wetter here, and colder. A pool of dark water filled the hollow in the floor of the cave.

"Do you think…" Gwynabyth began, her voice strained. "…Do you think Dralasa could be right? Divayth Fyr, _dead?"_

"I don't know," Eadwyrd whispered. His face was pale in the darkness. "It seems mad… they say he's nearly four thousand years old. How _could_ he die?"

They were silent for a long time, with only the drip-drip-drip of water to keep them company. There was no sign of Dralasa yet.

"But these black-robes," Eadwyrd continued. "Surely Fyr wouldn't have let this happen if he could prevent it? Dreamers? Relict Sixth House cultists? And they took his Corprus victims to Red Mountain… what can they be _doing?"_

"I want to get out of here," Gwynabyth shivered miserably, pulling her hands into the sleeves of her robe. "This is too big, Eadwyrd. We're don't belong here. We haven't seen the sun in more than a fortnight; I feel like I'm forgetting what it looks like. I want to get _out."_ Her voice broke.

Eadwyrd couldn't say where he suddenly got the courage from. He wound his arms around her, heart thumping at her closeness, one hand buried in her hair.

"We'll go," he said softly. "As soon as we get out of here, we'll go back to Glenumbra. We've done enough. We can work on the tonic again. Your cottage, and the kitchen-garden…"

He felt a thrill as she sank into him. "I'd like that," she whispered. "I'd like that more than anything."

_You have to do it now,_ he thought. _You have to tell her. Do it now, do it __**now.**_

"Gwyn," he began hoarsely. He had to stop and swallow, his throat was so dry. "Gwyn, I…"

She took his hand shyly and wound their fingers together, and he thought his heart might burst. "Gwyn–"

There was a splash from the other side of the pool.

"Dralasa," Gwynabyth breathed, turning away and looking out into the tunnel. "At last! Is it safe?" She called across. Throwing an excited smile at Eadwyrd, she grabbed her satchel and stepped into the light.

So did the figure on the other side of the pool. And with a jolt of horror that struck him like a knife in the heart, Eadwyrd saw what was wrong in one moment of clarity. The newcomer had red hair. Dralasa's was black.

A Cultist.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was out of the alcove and splashing across the shallows of the pool, the whole world shrinking to nothing but the dagger in the newcomer's hand. A moment later, he slammed into the woman's body and they were on the ground.

Then it was all teeth and eyes and hair and the knife, the Cultist squirming in his grasp like a demonic snake. Something seared across his forearm; in desperation he tried to hold her wrists, but she was kicking and biting, and his hands were slippery – with water? Blood? He couldn't tell. He thought he heard someone scream his name – Gwynabyth?

With an unnatural burst of strength, the attacker threw him sideways and he lost balance, stumbling over the lip of the pool. A second later he felt the water close over him. The sudden silence pounded in his ears, and terror washed over him, so thick and awful that he thought it might rip him in two: Gwynabyth was up there, alone.

He surfaced with a scream bubbling in his throat, staggering through the shallows in time to see the two women grappling like cats in the flickering light of the tunnel.

The dagger had skittered away across the other side of the pool. Gwynabyth had had the presence of mind to rake up a loose stone from the floor, and the attacker's temple was bloody. But the newcomer was stronger, and Gwynabyth was weak with fear and shock… Eadwyrd lunged towards them, his heart in his mouth…

It happened so quickly he didn't even have time to move. The Dunmer knocked Gwyn's arm aside with savage strength, wrapped a hand around her throat, lifted her clean into the air and shook her like a ragdoll. There was an awful snapping noise.

The next moment, her own dagger punched into her back – the dagger that Dralasa, now running full pelt down the tunnel, had picked up and thrown with deadly accuracy. And then everything was still: the Dunmer had choked out her last breath, and Gwynabyth was sprawled awkwardly on the floor, her neck twisted at an angle that he knew was very wrong.

He couldn't seem to find air in his lungs; silver pricked the edge of his vision, an icy hand was clamped around his chest, there was a distant roaring in his ears…

In the gathering dark, the gods play dice. They play dice with people's lives, and this time, someone loses.

Hardly aware, he stumbled across the tunnel and clumsily dragged her away from the pool, her body so deadweight and different to the time he had laughingly picked her up in the apothecary. Her face was covered by her hair, but he didn't brush it away. If he didn't see, it might not be true.

Dralasa kicked the attacker's body out of the way and knelt over Gwynabyth, fingers searching her neck. There was no need for the compassionate look she gave a moment later, the uncharacteristic pity in her eyes.

"The scrolls," she whispered in disbelief. "Why didn't you use the _scrolls?"_

Eadwyrd only looked at her dumbly. His face was a blank sea of horror.

"Please," he said. "Please."

The words were detached and meaningless. He didn't seem aware he had spoken.

"Use them now," Dralasa said quietly. "Take her back to the Palace. I'll get rid of this." She indicated the Dreamer.

Afterwards, Eadwyrd found he could never remember returning to Mournhold, or the weight of the nightmare thing in his arms. The images were a blur – a haze of dark and cold, a terrible cocoon of pain kept only inches away by shocked denial.


	27. Homecoming

**A/N: Clodia,** thank you again for your comments. I apologise to everyone for being so mean last chapter :( But the first rule of fiction is, of course, kill your darlings. There is a reason for it, I promise, though you will not see until later. Hopefully, this chapter will lift the mood a bit!

* * *

The King And I

Chapter Twenty-Five - Homecoming

* * *

Barenziah came hurriedly through the door, pushing it closed behind her. She seemed agitated.

"What is it?" asked Morgiah.

"Eadwyrd Greenhart's here," she announced quietly, glancing towards the door. "He's got some information from Tel Fyr – very significant information."

Morgiah sat forward, a flare of excitement in her eyes. "Well, send him in! What are you waiting for?"

"There's something else," Barenziah said. "Gwynabyth Yeomham is dead. He won't say much. They must have broken cover."

Instantly Morgiah's spark died, dreadfully, stone cold. "Dead…?"

"Yes."

A sudden rush of feelings – Bomba 'Lurrina's hints that there was more between the two than colleagueship, pity for the young man, and guilt… most of all, guilt. Because of course if not for Morgiah, the girl would be alive.

She'd sent a healthy, happy young woman to her death.

There was no time to dwell on the iron-hard truth before a knock sounded on the door, slow and hesitant. Morgiah composed herself. "Come in."

She hardly recognised the man who entered. Eadwyrd's face was pale as a sheet. Swallowing the guilt that now threatened to consume her, she stood and acknowledged him.

"Mr Greenhart, welcome. I am deeply saddened to hear of your loss."

It would have sounded pathetic even without the added irony of the condolences coming from the very perpetrator. As Eadwyrd raised his head, for a moment she thought the platitude had been an insult too much to bear and that he would strike her – but he remained still, his eyes dull.

"Thank you, your Highness."

She would have preferred barely-veiled hatred; this awful dumb blankness was somehow far worse. Still, she had to ask. Without the information they had gathered, Gwynabyth's death would be worthless.

"You have some information for me?"

"Yes, your Highness," he intoned emotionlessly. "Tel Fyr is overrun by cultists, formerly Dreamers, remnants of the Sixth House. There is an overseer who commands them, but their orders come from his Majesty the King. From what Gw–" he halted, swallowing, his eyes suddenly showing a flash of what was behind them – "what… _we…_ were told by Dralasa, Divayth Fyr has been killed, and a Dwemer who lived in his Corprusarium has been taken captive somewhere in Red Mountain. The Master Dreamer took a strength-fortifying elixir Fyr was creating, but it was unfinished and will probably poison him. The Corprus victims are also gone, but alive – they are being put to some use on a greater project. That is all we learnt. "

She did not patronise him any further.

"Thank you, Mr Greenhart. Forgive me the wrong I have done you. You may go. I release you from my service."

He left at once, ghosting out the door as if the slightest movement caused him pain. Morgiah sank into a chair.

"I shouldn't have sent them," she reflected. "I should never have sent either of them. They aren't spies. I should have saved the job for Solon Gothren."

"Indeed you should have," Barenziah said, compassionless.

A stab of anger erupted from Morgiah; Barenziah, watching, saw Helseth's petulance rise in her for one of those rare occurrences. "Then pray, why did you not counsel me so at the time?"

"I am not your keeper, heaven forbid. I am merely your mother. I have had my own affairs to deal with. I think perhaps you have learnt a lesson; a hard one, of course, but at least one at another's expense rather than your own."

Her daughter practically spat. "That is no comfort! You think it should have been Gothren? He was miles away undercover at Dren's estate; it would have been impossible! Have you forgotten how vital it is to keep the number of those knowledgeable of this investigation to a minimum?"

"I have forgotten nothing. I merely thought you would be competent enough not to need your hand held at every turn."

Morgiah's hands were shaking. "Get out."

Barenziah did so, bowing at the door.

When she had gone, Morgiah threw a crumpled page of her notes into the fire, and flung herself into the grateside chair. She stared into the flames for a long time.

* * *

Caius was at home with a bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy, getting well and truly smashed. When in doubt, there are few things that make more sense than getting pissed as a lord.

The fire had shaken him more than he liked to admit. When he'd woken, half-slumped in one of the Ascadian Isles' most picturesque lakes, Solon had already cast preliminary healing magic on his leg. He was glad one of them seemed to have retained some presence of mind, at least. The fracture barely even hurt any more. Solon was good.

He'd been very strange on the journey back, though. Caius had had to point out three times that he'd forgotten to tend to his own bloodied, skinned shoulder before the mer even seemed to notice. He had been quiet; moody, even – which for Solon, was uncompromisingly odd. He had never been moody before. He gave the impression that he couldn't be _anything_ other than Mildly And Disconnectedly Interested.

That it had something to do with Dren's death was crystal clear, but Caius had been wise enough not to inquire, and Solon did not seem in the mood to divulge. Exactly what had transpired to produce the little scene on the manor's top floor was a mystery, but the effects were undeniable. Dren's death would send a shockwave not only through the legitimate channels of House Hlaalu, but through Morrowind's entire criminal underworld. It was already happening. He'd seen groups of people whispering in taverns, meeting on street corners, chasing rumours. News travels fast.

Solon had gone on to Mournhold to deliver their report to Morgiah. Caius had felt a strange twist in his stomach as he took his leave; some nagging feeling made him suspect that Solon was traumatised – what a peculiar notion! – and needed company.

But he was useless at supplying comforting shoulders, he thought wretchedly. Caius was one of those people who, when their arms are filled with some tear-stricken seeker of sympathy, revert to panicked autopilot and find themselves awkwardly patting the unfortunate supplicant's head like a pet dog. Unsurprisingly, people did not tend to seek solace in his arms.

He took another swig, reflecting briefly on how sad it was to be a Blade, a paragon of the Empire's valour and virtue, sitting at home getting drunk and wishing he was better at giving his co-workers hugs. Just as well he was alone, really.

There was a loud knock on the door.

There was no time for composure. Someone banged the door open without even waiting for a reply, and then there was a tall body silhouetted against the night, the _thump_ of a discarded pack, a tumble of yellow hair…

"Bugger," Caius managed.

Nenya surveyed the sea of empty bottles with one eyebrow raised. "Cai. Are you drunk?"

"I always said you were clever."

She laughed at that – a pure, joyful sound – and oh, it was better than music, better than churchbells, better than anything. He realised he was beaming like a fool.

She threw her cloak by the door. "Got enough to share? Can't remember the last time I got drunk."

"Grab a pew," Caius said, giddy as a schoolboy. "What's the lady's poison?"

"Mead. I love mead. Got any Riften Blackbriar?"

"Tastes like honey," Caius murmured, seemingly transfixed by her mouth.

She looked highly amused. "You're well on the way, aren't you? Yes, mead tastes like honey."

"Oh yeah, and the mead as well," Caius mumbled obliviously, selecting the correct bottle after knocking several of its fellows over. "Let's see that famous Nord constitution, eh? You've got a lot of catching up to do."

"Don't you want to hear about my journey?"

He poured her a pewter cupful, miraculously without spillage. "Regale me, Nenya. I am agog."

"Well… killed some goblins, talked to an orc, killed some zombies, talked to a lich. Oh, yes – and _didn't_ talk to a mad old woman."

"But talked to a Khajiit. And hopefully didn't kill her."

Nenya's face cracked into a smile; she threw back her first cup of mead with accomplished ease. "Bomba? Oh, Caius, she's… I can't even explain. She's wonderful. A real lady, you know. All elegant and graceful." The mead suddenly hit her. "Hoarfather's Beard. What is this stuff, chainmail-cleaner?"

Caius was frowning blearily. _"You're_ a real lady."

Nenya snorted, pouring another. "Oh no, not like her. She could flirt with Gortwog and everything. You should have seen it, no wonder they send her for negotiations." She pondered, sipping rather than downing this time. "She's… _sensual."_

Caius sniggered. Somehow that word just sounded wrong coming out of Nenya's mouth. She swiped at him. "See? Doesn't work with me."

"It works," he said. "It works."

Nenya shook her head, grinning. "And you? What did you make of my mate Solon?"

"Bloody annoying."

Nenya tipped her head back and laughed. "You say that about everyone you like."

"Yeah. By the way, have I told you lately you're bloody annoying?"

She snickered. Her cup was empty again. "Oh, I'm blushing, I'm blushing."

"It becomes you," he said recklessly, refilling her glass. He lifted his own in rather unsteady celebration. "Toast?"

She lifted hers, too. "Aye. What to?"

"Homecoming," he said, clinking them together.

She smiled.

* * *

The evening wore on, and Morgiah brooded. A tall Imperial chambermaid came to stoke the fire, displaying curiosity verging on impertinence when she sensed her Highness's foul mood.

The argument with Barenziah had left Morgiah restless and uneasy. Of course, she knew better than to blame her mother for lack of counsel – she was far past the age of needing constant guidance. But Barenziah's cool put-down, as well as her dismissal of the importance of the death, rankled at her.

And there was the guilt; of course, always the guilt. It was obvious that Eadwyrd had been in love with the girl. She might as well have killed him, too. It had been a mistake to place them in such danger, a mistake that _she_ was responsible for.

And then there was the information…

Despite the anger and remorse flowing through her, the thought of the news Eadwyrd had brought prompted a little flicker of anticipation. Sixth House Cultists? Taking orders from _Helseth_? What could he possibly be using them for…? And Divayth Fyr dead… it almost took her breath away. Accounts of his age swung wildly from mere hundreds to impossible thousands of years. Had Helseth really managed to kill him? And if so, how and why? Alas, if he truly was dead, there was no easy way to answer those questions.

_Or was there?_

Her heart clenched, and the blackness seized her again – images, flick-flick-flick – there was that _other_ place, the waterfall of dusky dead, but it was different – a different time – it was not Tellanaco's lantern she was reaching out to, but something, some_one_ else…

The present came back to her like a battleaxe and she was leaning over the desk, breath ragged, herself again.

There _was_ someone who could get the answers she needed from Fyr. Bomba 'Lurrina and Nenya would be back very soon now, and her message and gift would have been safely conveyed.

Hopefully, they would bring a different message back with them. One that might hold the key to the answers hanging tantalisingly before her.

* * *

Caius surfaced groggily, his head lodging insistent complaints with the rest of his body, which was protesting just as vividly in return.

It was full daylight – nearly noon, judging by the ferocity of the glare through his window. Not being unfamiliar with this situation, Caius sighed and began the process of remembering exactly what the hell he did last night, where he was now, and whether he might have any fines to fork out for.

He was in his own house, at least. That was something. Not always a given. He'd settled down for the evening, he remembered, with that Cyrodiilic brandy that had been burning a hole in his cupboard for the last month, and then…

His eyes widened; he shot up, despite the pain in his head. _Nenya._

He groaned aloud. _Oh, Talos._ He'd been drunk before she even arrived, never mind the state he must have been in as the evening progressed. The comments he'd made returned to his mind with sadistic clarity; had he really had to be so _obvious?_

He looked around cautiously. He wasn't in his bedroom; he appeared to have fashioned some sort of makeshift nest out of a toppled-over drinks cabinet and half a blanket. He inspected it for a minute, then shrugged. It was a lot better than the memorable morning he had woken up in the Temple prayer garden to find three novices conspicuously trying to ignore him as they got on with their morning piety.

Rising slowly to his feet, registering with relief that the headache wasn't quite as bad as he'd thought, he tiptoed to the door of his bedroom and peered through the gap.

Nenya was tangled in the bedsheets, sound asleep, her hair fanning across the pillow like a sunburst.

He drew back, suddenly hyperventilating. He didn't – he couldn't have – surely he wouldn't…

_No,_ he thought, calming down, different memories mercifully returning. _You just gave her the bed, that's all._ At least he'd managed to act the certainly didn't feel very gentlemanly right now – the sight of Nenya in his own bed, her armour and clothes thrown haphazardly into the corner, was more than he could deal with at the moment.

He withdrew to the other room instead, making a valiant start on clearing up the mess. It wasn't too bad; a few displaced pieces of furniture, a cracked goblet. Oh, and the bottles, of course. He was amazed at how many there were, even for him. As he worked, the memories continued to return – after half the mead had gone they'd moved outside, onto the roof under the stars. He seemed to remember commenting that her eyes were pretty. He cringed.

He'd managed to make the room presentable and even fetched back some new bread from the bakers before Nenya emerged sleepily from the bedroom. When she saw his state of relative respectability she stopped short, looking down at her own blanket-robe and tousled hair with faint embarrassment.

"I've had a lot of practice," he said by way of reassurance.

She snorted with amusement, flumping down at the table and reaching for the bread. He poured her a cup of water and passed it over, feeling uncomfortably tongue-tied at the thought of his ridiculous proclamations. Would she remember? And if she did, would she pretend she had forgotten, just to make things easier?

He sat hesitantly on the bench as she found a pot of honey – he didn't even know he'd had one, trust her to find it – and spread it liberally over her bread. She chewed silently.

He groaned internally. If she didn't say something in the next five seconds, Sheogorath would have another mind to add to his collection.

It was four and a half seconds, as it turned out. "I was thinking," Nenya said slowly, "I mean, I was wondering, whether you still wanted to come to Skyrim. I mean," she continued hurriedly, "I kind of sprung it on you before I left. I didn't want you to feel like you had to come if you didn't want to. Just. You know. To make sure."

Caius frowned. What was she getting at? Was she regretting asking him, or did she really just want to make sure?

"Do you want me to come?" He asked haltingly, resolutely examining the cup before him. Damn it, this was _really_ not his forte.

"Um," Nenya said, putting down her plate and looking at the table just as awkwardly. "Yes. I do. I mean, I really do. Quite a lot." She took a deep breath. "Caius, what you said last night…"

Oh, Stendarr.

Man up, old boy, he told himself, and looked her in the eye.

What he saw sent a strike of lightning through him. She was blushing bright pink, and _smiling._ Not a pitying smile, or a mocking smile – a shy, glowing, _happy_ smile.

He had known he was in love with her for a long time now. He wasn't a green boy; he knew the signs. But his thoughts on the matter had always been how he might hide it from her, how he must be careful never to take advantage of what was merely friendship on her part…

He had never in a thousand years allowed himself to imagine that she might love him _back_.

"I'll come. Whatever you want, anything for you. Anything you want…" he was babbling, but somehow he didn't care.

She cut the babbling off with a clumsy, tentative kiss.

She tasted like honey and fresh bread. He kissed her back, and it was like the sun rising on his life.


	28. Interlude 10 By A Cherry Red Firelight

The King And I

Chapter Twenty-Six – Interlude Ten; By The Light Of A Cherry Red Fire

* * *

_Firsthold, Summurset Isle, Sun's Dusk 3E 408. It is twenty-one years before the present day. Morgiah is 32._

* * *

Sunset on Firsthold was one of the wonders of the world.

The city was stunning any light, of course. The lofty pinnacles of the Palace – a miracle of latticed glasswork, pale gem-like colours and insect-wing iridescence – reached towards the sky like some angelic behemoth. Smooth, delicately twisted tree trunks entwined with intricate silver pillars, creating an effect that blended nature and artifice with breathtaking elegance.

As the sun sank red over the sea, the city lit up like a jewel on fire.

The fire was reflected in the eyes of the woman standing at the fragile wrought-silver rail of the library balcony, three hundred feet above the ground. No Altmer had eyes like this. Only the Dunmer, with the ash and flame in their souls, could mirror the sinking sun.

Two years on, Firsthold was starting to feel more familiar to Morgiah. She would never have called it _home,_ but where _was_ home these days? Wayrest was lost to her. Morrowind, the country of her birth, was a stranger. It seemed that wherever she went, whatever she did, she would be a foreign princess.

The breeze from the ether lifted her hair, like a lover's hand.

The physical transition had been relatively easy. Her belongings arrived less than a week after herself, and to her surprise and pleasure, Barenziah had accompanied them. The awkward anticlimax of their parting had been preying on Morgiah's mind; the idea of hurting her mother's feelings was on one hand absurd, but on the other terribly painful. In the short weeks before her departure from Wayrest, Barenziah had made no attempt to ask how her daughter had snared one of the most powerful kings in Tamriel. Perhaps, against all odds, she thought Reman had genuinely fallen in love. Morgiah found the idea of such normality comforting, and was not inclined to make corrections.

The wedding of a King is an affair of state, and Reman's was no exception. The Altmer were lavish by nature – even Morgiah, used to the finery of the upper classes, had been taken aback by the decadence. The Royal Court was naturally scandalised by their King's hasty betrothal; the commons were even worse. She had a long way to go to win their love.

Helseth had not attended the ceremony.

He had not even written, though almost a year had passed since she had left their childhood home. She tried to tell herself he was caught up in the ever-increasing battle with Elysana, but in reality she was hurt by his silence. His initial reaction to the news of her betrothal had been one of bemused indifference, but he had grown cold in her final weeks at Wayrest, as if with her engagement she had done something cruel, something traitorous… It troubled her deeply, but she did not know how to make it right.

Reman, however, had been the biggest surprise of all.

Most unexpectedly, she found that she liked him. Even more astonishing was the fact that he seemed to like _her_. Firsthold's king was a kind soul, curiously devoid of the elitist snobbery so characteristic of his people. Though she had expressed no anxiety at the prospect, he had nevertheless been inordinately tender on their wedding night. He was a great deal older than her, it was true, but she found a quiet serenity in his presence that made the world – for a time – seem simple and good.

What he thought of her involvement with the King of Worms she had no idea. She suspected he believed her a hapless pawn, and his gentleness towards her was an according product. As with Barenziah, she felt it was better to leave him to his assumptions.

Behind her, the library stretched up like an icicle, a soaring spike of glass and silver. Hearing footsteps she turned, and her shadow stretched long and dark through the doorway.

"Your Highness." The newcomer bowed, his golden skin aglow in the pre-dusk light.

Morgiah smiled.

It had taken many months to arrange this meeting. On arriving in Firsthold, she had not wasted a single moment. The library was everything she had ever dreamed of, and it would take all her years as Queen to penetrate its secrets – but this person, this mer, was an even greater prize. Even in his own city, he had been slippery as an eel to locate and even harder to gain an audience with.

"So kind of you to consent to this meeting," she said lightly, sweeping off the balcony and into the cool darkness of the library interior. "You are a difficult man to find."

"I try to stay out of the public eye, your Highness. I find it is… simpler that way."

"The commons are quite voracious for you, it's true. They call you 'The Eternal Champion' in the city, did you know that?"

Jagar Tharn's vanquisher, Ria Silmane's chosen, smiled with faint pleasure. "A charming affectation. They seem reluctant to use my name, as if it holds some unknown power."

"Forgive me, but I'm afraid I shall go against the flow, _Ocato,"_ Morgiah said smoothly. "Birth-given names are so important, don't you think?"

"As you wish, your Highness," Ocato deferred with equal panache. He was being careful to show respect, she could see – after all, she was Queen – but it was clear that his sufferance would not stretch indefinitely. In his eyes, like so many of the Altmer nobility, she was little more than a trophy.

"May I offer you some wine?" She asked politely, retrieving a decanter from a jewelled cabinet. "It is quite delicious; we had a new shipment from Rosefield only yesterday."

"How kind. Thank you."

He accepted a glass of deep golden liquid from her outstretched hand and lifted it up, silently toasting her health. His eyes, she noticed, were the exact same shade as the wine, and curiously piercing.

"To what do I owe this honour, your Highness?" Ocato asked, waiting for her to settle in the deep green leather of the reading-chair before taking his own seat.

"A whim, in truth," Morgiah said innocently. "I have a mind to hear of your extraordinary adventures, particularly those near my own Province of High Rock. Perhaps you would care to indulge me."

"What her Highness desires, her Highness must be given," Ocato said inscrutably. She couldn't tell whether he was playing along or if he truly believed her. "I assume you are familiar with the history of the period? Although I confess, I have little knowledge what rumour or speculation may have made of the tale."

"I heard whispers in my time at Wayrest. It was said that you were seen in Evermore. Obviously, the Bjoulsae Basin is well-placed to receive such rumours."

"Well-placed indeed; you are correct. I was briefly in Evermore. You may also have heard the name _Crypt of Hearts?_ It is the infested ruin in which the sixth piece of Tharn's Staff was concealed."

Morgiah's eyebrow lifted. "Only in myth."

"So thought I, but alas, it exists." Ocato sighed. "A most disagreeable place. At that time, the Staff of Chaos was close to completion, and Tharn had finally uncovered Ria Silmane's plan. His pursuit of me was… unpleasant."

"So you decided to even the odds."

Ocato narrowed his eyes, not immediately understanding. "Your Highness?"

Morgiah leaned forward, betraying a little of her eagerness. _Careful, careful._ "As I said before, Wayrest is well-placed to hear rumours. And I have many eyes and ears. The word was that you sought… artefacts."

Ocato was silent for quite a while, regarding her with his placid amber eyes. "'Sought' is not quite the right word," he said finally. "The opportunity came across _me,_ as it were. At the time, I was journeying towards the western tip of the Iliac peninsula, hoping to elude Tharn by water. I happened to come across a coven in the woodlands of the Glenumbra Moors. You know what a coven is, I presume?"

"Freelance magic, outside Guild confines," Morgiah said, tapping her fingers against the polished mahogany armrest. "Of course, there are nomad bands all over Tamriel, but I understand the term _coven_ is peculiar to High Rock."

"Just so. The witches differ from place to place, but they all embody the same philosophy. Their matriarch is usually gifted with some form of second sight. In this case, it was unusually strong; apt, considering their area of summoning."

"So it _was_ you," Morgiah said softly, unable to keep the curiosity out of her voice. She sat up. "I am sorry to have misled you, Ocato. The rumours did not, in fact, concern you in particular – but I had little reason to doubt my suspicions. I hope you will forgive my deception."

Ocato smirked, the first smile to cross his lips since their introduction. "My dear Queen, had you really suspected my possession of the Ogmha Infinium – yes, let us not dance around the topic, I know the Tome is the artefact of which you speak – surely you would never have expected me to fall for such a contrived ruse?"

Morgiah stared, momentarily jolted off-course. "You _knew_ this was the reason I summoned you?"

"There are many things I perceive plain as day now that the Tome has passed through my hands. Perhaps, given my foresight, I should have been more reticent… but in truth, your Highness, you intrigue me." Ocato folded his immaculately manicured hands over his lap, leaning back with lazy abandon. "Reman may think you a shy maid, but I have seen the way you work this court, and I have heard whisperings of the manner of your meeting with him. Even _I_ do not fully understand your motives. You will forgive me, then, if I feed the alchemy-rat to further the experiment."

It took all of Morgiah's restraint not to let her jaw drop. Quite apart from being referred to as rat, the idea of Ocato observing her as some sort of _social experiment_ revolted her to the core.

"I am not a piece of alchemy equipment, Ocato. You out-manoeuvred me, and I'll grant you that, but I doubt you know as much as you allude to."

Ocato nodded, good-natured now the truth was out. "It is true that there are many circumstances surrounding your presence in Firsthold that are elusive to me. How did you come to marry Reman, for instance, with no prior connections and no friendship between your families? And why does he treat you like a fragile foundling that needs to be shielded from the vulgarities of the world? Elusive, indeed… I am content, however, to watch the unfolding from afar."

It took Morgiah a moment to realise what he meant. "Afar –? You are leaving? How unfortunate; we have only just begun to know eachother."

"I am afraid it is quite impossible to stay; in fact, if you will excuse me, these scant minutes in your company are all I can afford. News has reached me today that his Majesty the Emperor has offered me the position of Imperial Battlemage. I shall be returning at first light to accept." He smirked, looking directly into her eyes with a gaze that reminded her, for a moment, of blue sparks under a red hood. "The irony is delicious, is it not?"

Morgiah laughed; she couldn't help herself. "I'm sure Tharn would be the first to appreciate it," she agreed, getting to her feet. "I won't detain you, then, although I am sorry our audience needs be so fleeting. Do visit, won't you?"

Ocato followed suit, rising and kissing her hand. "But of course, your Highness."

They left the room in the dwindling glow of the setting sun.

* * *

On the 20th of Sun's Dawn 3E 409, Queen Morgiah of Firsthold begged leave of King Reman to visit her family in High Rock. Eager to please, he gave her a swift galley, five extravagantly expensive dresses for the occasion, a twenty-carat emerald as a gift for Queen Barenziah and a fond farewell at the docks.

What her lord husband did _not_ know was that once they disappeared past the Cape of the Blue Divide, her Highness bribed the captain an obscene amount of money (not to mention the emerald) to dock not in Wayrest, but the Iliac peninsula of the Glenumbra Moors.

* * *

**A/N: **Players of _Oblivion _will, of course, recognise Ocato. Since he holds the position of Imperial Battlemage come TES IV, I liked the idea that he acceded to his office by dispatching the former candidate - through the events of _Arena_, of course. Each Elder Scrolls game is so vastly different from the rest that I really like to find familiar ways to link them up and make them into something more of a cohesive whole. Since all my efforts on this front so far have been based on _Daggerfall_ and _Morrowind_, I thought it was only fair to bring the other two in. In case you haven't already realised, this story will end up contradicting Oblivion canon quite a bit (due to being planned out before the game was even embryonic), but I still wanted to put some namedrop connections in.


	29. The Pyre

The King And I

Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Pyre

* * *

In a nondescript room of a Vivec lodging-house, a Morag Tong assassin was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

Her contractor, a woman with a head full of golden ringlets, smiled beatifically. "No, of course I do not wish to alter the particulars of my writ. Whyever would you ask such a thing?"

The assassin's foot tapped uneasily under the desk. The lady was soft-spoken, to be sure, but there was something _off_ about her. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on. "My lady, I am not sure if your preferred method is… efficient. If I may suggest an alternative…?"

"I gave you very specific instructions, did I not?"

"Yes, my lady…"

"And such indepth specifics indicate that I have given this matter extensive thought, do they not?"

To her credit, the assassin did not bat an eyelid. "Yes, my lady."

The woman smiled again. "Then I do not believe the subject merits further discussion. You have your orders. I hear there has been one attempt already?"

The assassin frowned. "One _attempt,_ yes. Had we been given leave to utilise non-alchemical methods, I believe it would have been a successful one."

"What makes you think it was not successful?"

The assassin paused, nonplussed. Was the lady, perhaps, slow of wit? "My lady, the King is still…"

"You have carried out my instructions to the letter," interrupted the woman, "and I am perfectly satisfied with your results so far. For your next foray, however, I have an additional request."

From her sleeve she produced a small slip of parchment, offering it over the table in one be-ringed hand. Its contents were short, in neat and innocuous print. The Morag Tong assassin took it hesitantly.

"I would like you to place this in a very specific position," she said slowly, her blue eyes levelling on the assassin with bright clarity. "Once again, you must follow my instructions exactly. Do you understand?"

The assassin was professional. This woman was a paying customer; if she wanted time wasted through this bizarre and inefficient method, so be it. She listened to her orders, and an hour later was on a boat to the mainland.

* * *

Helseth was receiving news.

It had taken more trouble than he had patience with to haul in this Cammona Tong thug. His contacts suddenly seemed to be slipping through his fingers like water, the carefully-prepared spy network vanishing before his eyes. It was enough to make him scream. Why must everything be so _difficult?_

To top it off, the news the Tong member had brought was a blow so severe it left him reeling.

"Orvas Dren _dead?_ By Arkay, are you mad? Where is this rumour coming from?"

The Tong thug's eyes darted nervously from wall to wall, refusing to look Helseth in the eye. The look on the King's face was not something you wanted to see when the only news you had was bad.

"Everywhere, your Majesty. The whole city's speaking of it. There's been a fire, so it's said. Dren was trapped in his manor and by all accounts died in the blaze."

Helseth's fist screwed up compulsively, obliterating a sheet of parchment. "A _fire?_ In the Ascadian Isles? The entire damn place is surrounded by water! What kind of fool do you take me for?"

The Tong thug shrugged uneasily. "Fires happen, your Majesty. Candles get knocked over. Coals come out of fireplaces. I'm only the messenger; this is what I've heard on the rumour mill."

Helseth closed his eyes, willing himself to be calm. It was salvageable. He still had the entire Dark Brotherhood out spying for him. But gods, the Cammona Tong network had been three times the size of the Brotherhood, and whoever picked up the threads of the syndicate's chaos might not be so open to his advances… Dren's high position in House Hlaalu had been crucial to their partnership…

Why in Arkay's name did the idiot have to go and get himself roasted alive? It was so damned _inconvenient!_

"Get out," he snapped at the unfortunate mer, who left with unflattering haste. Throwing aside the ruined parchment, Helseth rang the servant's bell rather too forcefully; the cord broke in his hand. He cursed.

"Bring wine," he snapped at the maid who answered the call; the haughty-looking Imperial chamberwoman who had arrived the previous week. Were there _any_ familiar faces in the Palace these days? "And you'll be tasting it, so _make sure_ it is from my own personal store if you don't want to go the same way as Othrell."

When the maid had withdrawn, Helseth took a fresh piece of parchment from the drawer and addressed a letter to the Dreamer Master. The plan had to be sped up. Things were starting to break down.

* * *

Night fell, the growing darkness lending a deep luminosity to the glow of the small pyre in Godsreach.

Gwynabyth's funeral was a quiet affair, with only the undertakers and resident priest in attendance. Eadwyrd had thought Morgiah might pay her respects, but she was nowhere to be seen, and although he knew the reason for her absence was to avert suspicion, it stung bitterly at what little feeling mind he had left. Having been her friend and colleague, he had been invited to say a few words at the ceremony – but in the end it transpired that he only stood silently in the background as her body was committed, Breton-fashion, to the flames.

The night before he had sat numbly, pen poised over paper, staring emptily into the grate. What had seemed so easy before – the tribute to the lightness and brightness of affection, the comparison of love to morning's first-opened fox-flower – now deserted him, his mind a barren wasteland, cold and remote.

…skin so fair as the new apple-blossom…

…had the Aedra harps and flutes, your sweet laugh they could not recreate…

…like a soft dark wave your hair; than each strand silk was not more precious…

…your gentle smile, the cocoa mischief in your eyes…

It was hollow, a mockery. As dawn crept over the horizon, he had hurled the half written-on page into the fire. There he had knelt, head in his hands, too devastated even to cry.

* * *

Eadwyrd was incorrect about Morgiah. Earlier that evening, she had in fact laid out a black dress and heavily-hooded cloak – it had worked in Scourg Barrow, after all – but at the last minute was intercepted by the abrupt return of two separate recruits.

The first was Solon, and she was finding him more unnerving than ever before.

"The unnecessary danger you have encountered is regrettable, Ser Gothren," she told the Dunmer pointedly from across her desk. "I heard of the tragic fire at the Dren Estate – not, of course, that either your name or Sergeant Caius's was mentioned in conjunction with the same." Just as well, she added silently. The arson report had come as a bit of a surprise, and not a welcome one. It was far too dramatic for her tastes. Thank Azura no-one seemed to be aware of her agents' presence at the Manor on the night in question; she might have had to answer some very awkward questions.

"I believe the desired outcome has been achieved, your Highness," Solon replied inscrutably. "The Cammona Tong now has no existing records of you or your activities. Furthermore, the destabilisation of the syndicate will lessen his Majesty's use of their spy network, since I believe his dealings took place mainly with Orvas Dren himself. It will also affect his friendship with House Hlaalu if Dren's replacement is not as… _receptive_ as his predecessor."

There was something different about him, Morgiah decided. Her abiding memory had been of calm detachment, but that didn't seem to be the case any more. If she had to put a name to his demeanour at the moment, it would be _reckless_. He had been useful, and Nenya's recommendation was not one to cast lightly aside – because he was right, of course, the disarray in the Cammona Tong would undoubtedly prove a huge advantage to her investigation. But if Solon had made her uncomfortable before, it was nothing to what he was doing now. The mer was a wild card. She simply could not take the risk.

"Your work on this matter has been invaluable, Ser Gothren," she said formally. "It will not go without its reward. I am extremely grateful for your services."

It was a dismissal, and he picked up on it immediately. Delaying only to kneel and kiss her hand, he slipped from the room like a panther and was gone immediately.

Morgiah returned to her seat, a small frown carved between her brows.

"Well," said a second voice from beside the fire. "That was… odd."

Morgiah looked over at Bomba 'Lurrina, who had been preparing a skooma pipe throughout the interview. She had arrived scant minutes before Solon. _"Odd_ is true, but I can't quite pinpoint why. Did he seem different to you, Bomba?"

The Khajiit considered this, rolling the stem of the pipe between her fingers. "Different, yes… in strange ways. Like a pot bubbling with the lid on. Or a coiled spring. Do you see what I mean?"

"Very lyrical. Yes, I do. I'm grateful Nenya recommended him – he's done some fine work – but to tell the truth, I'm not sorry to see the back of him." She cocked her head. "Speaking of Nenya, I'd hoped you would both come together. Surely you took the same boat back?"

The Khajiit smirked. "She disembarked at Ebonheart. She had business to deal with in Balmora."

The way she said "business" seemed to indicate some inside joke. Morgiah mentally shrugged; whatever Nenya was up to, she'd no doubt be back when she was needed – although she had wanted to tell the Nerevarine her next and most important piece of news in person.

"I should tell you; Gwynabyth Yeomham is dead," she said woodenly. It sounded even worse than it had yesterday, not least because by now she had almost certainly missed the funeral.

Surprise flashed in Bomba 'Lurrina's eyes, which quickly gave way to weary sadness. Living as she did, she'd long ago inured herself to death; being an agent of the Emperor required a certain amount of emotional detachment. Nevertheless, her voice was heavy when she spoke.

"That is bad – for the young man most of all. How did it happen?"

"They broke cover on an assignment. It was a genuine mistake, or so my agent in Sadrith Mora tells me. Mr Greenhart will be compensated, of course."

The silence between them was uncomfortably thick with the unspoken truth that nothing Morgiah could give, financially or otherwise, would ever compensate Eadwyrd now. The Princess felt guilt rear up once more, winding around her throat and strangling her words – with every day, this investigation was becoming less a favour to Barenziah, and more an obligation of debt to the lives that had already been ruined.

Which made it even more important to press on. She came to the divan by the fire; no desks for her and Bomba 'Lurrina, they had passed that formality many years ago. "Tell me of your travels."

By way of an answer, Bomba 'Lurrina reached into her pack and handed over a letter. Despite the leadenness in her stomach, Morgiah couldn't help but feel an involuntary thrill. She slit the envelope open.

"The 28th," she said with a ghost of a smile, scanning the page before slipping it out of sight into her desk drawer. "Good. Now, what of your other destinations?"

Bomba 'Lurrina blew out a breath, and began to talk.

It was a long monologue. The candle burnt down steadily. Bomba 'Lurrina was thorough; she started with Shedungent and Nulfaga, went on through Orsinium and the information imparted by Gortwog, and finished at Scourg Barrow. The details of her report were comprehensive, well-ordered and succinct. By the end, Morgiah's former expression was nothing next to the dreadful mask she wore now.

There was a silence as Bomba 'Lurrina took a long drag on her hookah.

"You must be mistaken," Morgiah said finally. It was hard to tell much from her inflection.

Bomba breathed out a curl of smoke, watching her warily. They had known each other a long time – one might even go so far as to call them _almost_ friends – but voicing the kinds of allegations she had just made against the Princess' brother was a dicey move.

"Akulakhan was destroyed in the Nerevarine Ascension," Morgiah said flatly.

"So we thought. Nenya says there is a possibility it could be rebuilt… they would need Dwemer instruction. Schematics, at the very least, and a taskforce of diligent workers. But there is a very small chance that it could be achievable."

Morgiah had that _look_ again, in the firelight. That blank, statue-like mask that shut off her eyes and made her a closed book.

"Thank you," she said to the fire, addressing Bomba 'Lurrina but not looking at her. "You have worked hard and provided a great deal of information. Keep close. I shall call you again should I need you."

Whether the Princess believed her or not, Bomba knew, like Solon, that this was her cue to make a swift exit. She took her pipe and left.

Alone by the fire, Morgiah's hand reached for the green gem, and rolled it through her fingers like a child seeking comfort from a well-worn toy.

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for all the comments on the last chapter! **Clodia**, I am glad you think Morgiah is a strong character! I'm eternally paranoid about her becoming a Mary-Sue, which is why I don't often physically describe her. The eye thing in the last chapter was a bit of a departure from that ethic, but since all Dunmer have red eyes I hoped it didn't sound as if I was singling her out.

**Bhen**, I'm afraid there's not much more than a taste for you in this chapter, but a little is better than none, right? And thank you so much for your compliments!

**Sierra,** Thank you for such a generous review - as I said on ESF, I find it interesting that you've picked up on Morgiah's 'funny turns', as you're the first to do so. But then again, you always did have a knack for noticing the little things...


	30. Interlude 11 What's In A Name

The King And I

Chapter Twenty-Eight – Interlude Eleven; What's In A Name

* * *

_Glenumbra Moors, High Rock, 5__th__ First Seed 3E 409. It is twenty years before the present day. Morgiah is 33._

* * *

It was colder here than she'd remembered. She had got used to the balminess of the Summerset Isles very quickly.

Coming back to High Rock was something Morgiah had refused to be nostalgic about. This was not her home any more. She must not think that way now. The Altmer ship was anchored off the Glenumbra coast for the present; she did not have long before she must continue to Wayrest for the appointed family visit.

It had snowed. The twigs that crumbled under Morgiah's feet were sodden and did not snap to announce her presence; nevertheless, the coven found her before she found them.

"We saw you," said a voice behind her.

Immediately she whipped round, but there was no-one. The wood looked as empty as when she had first set foot in it, a welcome relief from the barren loneliness of the moors that leant Glenumbra their name.

"We saw you long ago, when you left the city of insect-wing towers," said the voice again.

Morgiah stood still, her breath shallow.

The voice had come from a nearby tree. But now she looked at it, one of the strands in the trunk looked like an arm, and a spray of moss to on side a tangle of hair – and it wasn't a tree anymore, but a woman who looked at her with eyes that had seen Oblivion. There were others, too; she could see their faces and their hands in her peripheral vision.

"Long have you been a scarlet streak across our vision," said the woman softly. "But it is the green that is in your soul, is it not?"

Morgiah's hand went instinctively to the beryl-gem at her neck. _How can they know_, she thought, at the same time as: _How could they __**not **__know?_

"Today is the fifth of First Seed," she said, taking control. "Will you summon a Daedra Prince for me?"

The tree-woman, the coven-leader, regarded her carefully. She looked old, Morgiah thought, leaning on a gnarled staff, but with a twist of her head and a gesture of her hand her skin seemed youthful, her hair thick and yellow… "You seek the Knowledge-Giver," she said shrewdly. "There is no guarantee he will come."

Morgiah narrowed her eyes. "He will come for _me,"_ she said sharply.

The coven-leader looked at her thoughtfully. "Yes… yes, I believe he may," she murmured. Morgiah did not like the smile that tinged her lips.

She held out the bag of money; the coven-leader took it. The other witches came forward and gathered round her in a circle.

There was no going back now.

* * *

Time was going backwards, inside out… she felt as if her skull was splitting along the line of crow's blood the coven-leader had daubed there; she was writhing, screaming on the ground…

All of time was flashing through her thoughts; she could see it in shocks and glimpses that threatened to crush her mind with their sheer volume and speed…

There were eyes looking at her, a thousand eyes, and a cracked voice that spoke over hundreds of millennia. A voice that rasped like the turning of ancient brittle pages, a voice wet with years of ink and thought.

"You seek wisdom," said the Voice. Thousands, thousands of eyes that watched each moment of all time, and every single one turned on her.

"Yes," she croaked – oh, the weight of it all, it was so hard to speak! "Yes. I seek wisdom."

"You would have My Tome," the Voice settled, like the feel of calfskin and binding-glue. "That is the way of things, is it not? You summon me, I name the terms, you make a payment – and I reward you."

She had felt apprehensive about this part, about the nature of the task she would have to complete, but now she could barely concentrate on it. Always, behind the eyes, the rush and sickening swoop of a thousand thousand images flickering past, from a thousand thousand lives…

"The payment will come," said the Voice like the scratching of a quill. "I have seen it. You will pay for this thing with the blood of your own heart, with the blood of those you have forgotten you love. You will twist the knife in their veins. That is the price. You will pay… not yet, not perhaps for many years. _But you_ _will pay."_

For the first time, fear broke through her carefully-woven shell of arrogance. _Stendarr_, _Mercy… what have I done?_

"Now," it said, "place yourself back in Mundus, by whatever magery or skill you have. The Tome will be waiting for you there."

Her head was spinning grotesquely; she couldn't speak, couldn't think. The images behind the eyes were surging forward, they were clamouring around her, engulfing her – she was falling, choking on time, choking on visions of those who had gone by and those who were to come – all was colour, confusion –

She saw her mother at a banquet with a forlorn flower in her hair. She saw Helseth, older, as he drew his hand back and dashed it across the face of a kneeling woman with long gold ringlets. She saw a fire in a manor, struggling figures in a dank cave. She saw Reman, head bowing and sliding off his chair to the floor. She saw a rush of incomprehensible rooms, danger everywhere – it was Oblivion, she thought, before the haze clarified and took on the polished tint of blue stones, indoor gardens, Dunmer servants…

And one scene, one thread of time, one _life_ was dominating her sight and becoming clearer.

She knew who it was the moment she saw the candles flickering on the mantelpiece and the folds of the red cloak. The fact that out of the crowding visions of a hundred million lives, she was seeing _his,_ should have astonished her. But somehow, it was as if it couldn't possibly have happened any other way.

This was how she knew him. Sitting in the carven chair of the interview-room, the wine between them, the firelight illuminating his gloved hand holding the glass, the impenetrable shadow under his hood.

But now she saw other things… She saw tombs and ceremonies. She saw him nine feet tall and wreathed in smoke – was this really the same person? The heart-stopping terror of those unnatural blue eyes was overwhelming – terror that she'd forgotten since that day in Firsthold, the day she'd seen a glimpse of what was beneath … she saw spirits rising and pouring through him, power that sustained and prolonged him…

She saw the meeting-hall in Scourg Barrow as it was hacked and hollowed from the caverns. She saw the hordes that flocked to the new heart of Necromancy; saw them take up his symbol and swear allegiance to him.

Suns flew backwards, autumn turned to summer, spring to winter, on and on…

She saw him in the landscape of her High-Rock home, all moorland and hills and mountains – he was scaling the lonely heights, and she realised with a shock that was almost physical: _there was no shadow under his cloak._ He looked up to the sun, pulled his hood down…

Her heart was racing so hard it felt painful.

He retreated over the hills, and now it was night, and now day again, and he was not in a cloak but rough riding-clothes… over and over…

And now it was a boy of ten or eleven who ran to the door of a house on the outskirts of a town – a woman opened the door, smiled, ushered him in – an old woman who bore no resemblance to him, but who treated him like a son or favourite pupil…

Back… back… falling through the suns and moons… and now the same house, newly painted, and an Altmer man on horseback. The boy stood at his side, hardly three summers old. The same woman opened the door – her face now unlined – there was an angry conversation, loud voices. The boy looked frightened. The woman took him into the house, smoothing his hair and casting the horseman black looks…

Back again… whirling through time… scenes changing, colours blurring… and now it was not just images she saw. She could feel a stone floor beneath her feet, hear voices.

And screaming. Thin, high screaming.

Clearer… the sweeps and vaults of colour gained refinement and texture… there was the glow of candles, the dim roughness of a stone wall, a necklace catching the light.

The voice was clearer now too, wheedling and pathetic under the volume of the squalling. The voice was a man's.

"It must not be allowed to live!" he insisted. He was in focus now; golden skin, auburn hair, servile posture. Altmer. "It is impure! Product of the half-savage monstrosities of this land–"

A woman's voice cut over him, candlelight gleaming off the gilt on her bodice and the jewels at her throat. Sweat was on her pale brow; Altmer also. "Do you think I'll listen to you, you cringing idiot? What sex is the child?"

Morgiah could now see the bloodied linen to one side, the woman's dress hitched above her knees, the rough bier she lay upon.

"The Dirennis will excommunicate you!" moaned the man above the child's increasing wails. Tiny golden limbs peeped from beneath the wool wrap. "What possessed you? These Bretons, they are a half-breed to begin with, human barbarians – how you could bring yourself to lie with one – there must be no talk of this, ever! The child must be destroyed!"

The Direnni woman leant forward and cracked her hand across his face, despite the weakness of her recent labour.

"Give him to me, you stupid man!" she thundered, snatching the baby and falling back upon the bier. "Ahhhh," she sighed, as if from a draught of wine. "A boy! An heir…"

"No," snapped the man, emphatic for the first time. "That is madness. If this thing must live, it must not be to the detriment of any pure Direnni descendants. It is not only me you will have to contend with; you will not be able to validate his legitimacy."

The woman's eyes flared with bitterness, but she had no answer. His words were true.

"His heritage you may refuse him," she said in a cold, flat hiss, "but he shall have an ancestral name befitting of his forebears. That you cannot, and will not, deny."

The man turned his back, his contempt like a wall of stone.

The woman dipped a cup into the bronze basin of water beside her, and let two drops fall on the child's head, perfect beads of crystal clarity. The small form in the linen had grown quiet, content at her touch.

"This name shall be your calling from now until the end of the world," spoke the woman, and her voice was like the ring of brass in the dark of eternity. She tipped the cup for the third and final libation.

The last bead of water fell through an abyss of time.

As the mother spoke the name, Morgiah heard it echo round her soul and twist in her mind like a knife, flickering in her eyes like blue fire… and then the room was flickering too, the woman, the man, and the child … they were all wavering like the last flames in an ageing furnace, falling deep into time and beyond memory…

The last thing Morgiah saw before she awoke, shrieking and writhing on the grass of the coven, was a pair of blue eyes like stars in a moonless sky and a name that carved itself onto her mind in letters of fire.

* * *

She hardly remembered the journey back to Firsthold. Even the inky weight of the huge tome at the bottom of her trunk – the Oghma Infinium, its bindings crackling with ancient magic – could not yet draw her. She couldn't quite comprehend the enormity of what she had seen; it was as if she was encased in a bubble that kept it a handspan away until she had the strength to acknowledge it.

His _name…_

From her memory of the frantic confines of Oblivion, she heard the words he had spoken to her. _Remember the name. Names have power. If you do not have the name, you cannot give him anything real. _

Nowhere in her twenty years of study of the King of Worms had she ever come across a birth-given name. If ever anyone had once known, they must have taken that secret to the grave centuries ago. The knowledge was obscenely intimate.

His life… his rise to power… his childhood… his _birth…_

Her mind whirled like a spinning top.

And that was not the only keepsake she took from her journey to the Glenumbra Moors. From dusk of the fifth of First Seed 3E 419, with Hermaeus Mora lodged like a canker in her heart and soul, Morgiah began to experience the disrupted and fragmented visions of the past and future which would afflict her for the rest of her life.

* * *

**A/N: **This part of the story - the _name,_ and the importance of the name, seems very anticlimactic now in the light of the recent Elder Scrolls titles. Of course, everyone and her dog who's played Oblivion now knows that the King of Worms is called Mannimarco; suddenly it seems to be common knowledge all over Tamriel. But when I began writing this - and this scene is very old, in fact one of the oldest - the only reference I could find to the name _Mannimarco_ were in two very obscure lore-centric texts, one of which turned out not to exist in its own right at all (it was a false reference in another book by the name of _Niso's Lives Of The Emperors_). There was still a lot of mystery surrounding the King of Worms and his origins. The half Breton/half Direnni Altmer theory is entirely my own, and one I formed quite early on. 'Mannimarco' quite clearly follows Altmer naming patterns, but I reasoned that since the King continues to reside in the Iliac Bay, it would not be far-fetched to assume he had connections to the place. The Dirennis were an ancient Altmer clan, at one time very powerful, who conquered much of the Iliac Bay and surrounding country before being overthrown in turn by the Cyrodiilic Alessians. Bretons, too, are considered an unusually magical race. I suppose I was just playing around with interesting identity issues with the mixed parentage; being half Breton, a race the Altmer generally looked down on, may have also facilitated Mannimarco's infamous brawl with Galerion the Mystic, a pure Altmer through and through. Just ideas, really.

If you were one of the observant ones who picked up on Morgiah having 'funny turns' every so often - **burntsierra**, you are way too sharp-eyed to hide anything from - the last paragraph in this chapter is of course the answer to the mystery. Her encounter with Herma Mora will end up being more complicated still, but that's a chapter for another day...


	31. The Frame And The Face

The King And I

Chapter Twenty-Nine – The Frame And The Face

* * *

Morgiah sat at her dressing table, dragging a brush slowly through her hair.

It was Mourndas, 28th First Seed. It was ten past eight, and according to the King's letter he would be arriving at nine o clock. She had designed the gem to manifest in her study; it was out of the way, a place visited by others only at her explicit invitation. Behind her, Kippet the maid was taking a dress from the wardrobe and smoothing the skirt.

She selected a jewelled comb from the drawer and slid it into the mass of curls.

Kippet began to lace her corset, threading the ribbons cross by cross, loop by loop. Morgiah took a sip of kanet-flower tea, feeling a strange enjoyment in the domesticity of the scene. The boning tightened in a series of gentle tugs. Kippet was always careful not to pull at her; she appreciated that.

She had just stepped into the overdress when a series of rapid footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, joined quickly by voices raised in anger and indignation. She barely had time to exchange a quizzical look with Kippet before the door flew open, banging against the wall and causing the maid to shriek in alarm.

"Your Majesty, we have not yet ascertained the sender of this information," someone was saying, a harassed-looking mer Morgiah recognised as Helseth's steward, Milvela Dralen. Her brother himself pushed his way into the room, eyes like molten lava.

"Peace, Dralen!" he snapped. "I want it checked _now._ Then we shall see what follows. Sister," he said with a smile that could have halted a rampaging kagouti, "how do you fare? I should like to take a look at the contents of your bureau, if you please."

"Do come in," said Morgiah dryly, looking very pointedly at her brother's position in the middle of the room.

"Dralen," Helseth repeated, keeping his eyes on his sister.

The steward crossed the room, opening a drawer in Morgiah's bureau and sorting through the beribboned contents with noticeable discomfort.

Morgiah adjusted her skirts, motioning for Kippet to fasten the back of her dress. "Might I inquire as to the nature of this unexpected sortie?"

Before Helseth could answer, however, the steward gave a faint gasp, withdrawing a linen lavender-bag from the back of the drawer and straightening up with a look of incredulity. His Majesty held a hand out for it, eyes still locked on hers, and sniffed imperceptibly at the contents.

"Raw bittergreen," he pronounced.

There was a silence as Morgiah's brain ticked.

_Keep him calm._

"Your steward mentioned a "sender of information", she said coolly. "Do you mean to tell me some obliging benefactor informed you I was keeping poison among my corsets?"

"Do not spin this out; you are in danger enough already," Helseth replied, his voice tight and strained. His expression was controlled, but the eyes rang true, seething pits of disbelieving betrayal.

"I have been framed," Morgiah answered with that same superb calm. She marvelled idly at the steadiness of her voice, because this was bad. This was very, very bad. Who in Malacath's name was the orchestrator of this damnable charade? As if her relationship with Helseth didn't have enough problems _already! _ "Even if you believed for a moment that I would seek to poison my own brother, do you really have such little regard for my intelligence to assume I would nestle the evidence conveniently among my smallclothes?"

She thought she saw a flicker of hesitation cross Helseth's face, and scented victory. Was it actually possible she could worm her way out of this?

"May I examine your… information?" she asked, keeping her tone as light as possible.

Helseth narrowed his eyes, but to her profound relief looked away and signalled to the steward with a flick of his hand. The mer reluctantly brought a slip of parchment out from his sleeve and passed it over.

Morgiah examined it hungrily, raking her gaze over the innocuous missive for a hint of anything familiar. _Regarding the tragic death of his manservant Othrell, his Majesty will learn something to his advantage in her Highness the Royal Princess's dressing-table,_ said the scrawled note. She did not recognise the hand. It was simply signed, _A friend._

"A _friend?"_ she snorted. "How very droll. And you _believed_ this?"

Helseth's eyes became dangerous once more. "It is harder to doubt when the evidence is present as instructed, madam."

_Careful._ It wouldn't do to insult him, not with the axe so well and truly over her neck. "Yes, of course. But again, I ask: do you really think me so simple-minded as to conceal my heinous treason in an unlocked drawer? In my _own bedchamber?"_

There was a moment of silence.

"Then we must look for an alternative solution," Helseth said, surprising her with his tranquillity. Funny; she'd expected a screaming match akin to the first assassination attempt in the dining room – not, of course, that this wasn't infinitely preferable. "Who has access to this room? Who could pass unnoticed, that might have the opportunity to plant such damning evidence?"

There was a small noise of muted terror from the corner by the wardrobe. As one, the three of them turned to bear on Kippet, the little Bosmer maid, who was shaking from head to toe.

* * *

The crowd in the Silk Market was as impenetrable as ever. Merchants hawked, customers argued, drunks sang, whores laughed. Almalexia seethed.

For the first time ever, Solon seethed with it.

A fire had been lit in him since Dren's death. He was out of his depth, confused – spikes of sensation jolted through him like a shock spell gone wrong. Anger. Sorrow. Resentment. And… something else? Anticipation, excitement?

The anger was easy; he was angry at was himself. No, not angry; he was _livid._ How could he have been so stupid? He had treated it like an experiment, like a _game._ He'd never misjudged so badly in his life.

The worst thing was, he had begun to look _forward_ to seeing Dren. No matter how uncomfortable the lack of control had made him feel, he had still been ready to relinquish power just for a moment. To see where the situation would take him. To revel in the fascination of it. That it would ultimately reveal Dren to be a violent, jealous, manipulative bastard was such a bitter disappointment. It could have been so much _better._

And then the sorrow and the resentment… he thought of Felara Ules defending a man she barely knew, a man who had been lying through his teeth during the entirety of their brief acquaintance, and felt a deep pit of guilt in his stomach. She had probably died for him. Dren hadn't confirmed it, but it didn't take a genius to connect the dots.

And the anticipation… for what?

The Cammona Tong was in chaos; the rumours were all over the province. He'd heard more panic in taverns this past week than in a whole decade. Where would the syndicate go from here? Was there anyone who could pick up the threads? The Cammona Tong had been Orvas Dren's pet project; he'd built up his contacts over two hundred and fifty years of business ingenuity, social climbing, dealing, bullying and threatening. It was one of the reasons Solon had thought he might make an interesting acquaintance before he'd panicked and turned tail. The Cammona Tong was an elaborate tower – a tower with bricks made of explosive glass, balanced so precariously that one nudge would cause the kind of catastrophe where people are still cleaning their brains off the wall ten years later.

Well, the nudge had happened, and it would take someone of extraordinary skill to repair the shattered remains. Someone who had the intelligence to do so quickly before it was too late. Someone who had the right contacts, and the charisma to enchant them with the idea of a successor. Someone…

Ah. So _that _was what the anticipation was for.

Solon smiled a wolfish smile, another face lost in Almalexia's stewing anonymity.

* * *

At precisely two minutes to nine, Morgiah entered her study and locked the door. Frowning distantly, she went to the glass-fronted cabinet and removed the vintage claret she'd had the cellarmaster bring up earlier, along with two crystal goblets.

The business with Kippet had left her scant time to keep this appointment. Helseth had staunchly advocated thumbscrews and racks, but Morgiah had overruled him. Kippet was _her_ maid, after all. The girl was plainly terrified. She had simply brought the linen up from the laundry rooms, she said. A lavender-bag among the pile would be no cause for remark; they often went up and down with the washing. She had given it no more thought than any linen she had carried up to her mistress' chambers in her life.

Morgiah believed her. Kippet was a young mer whose family lived exclusively in Valenwood; she was too juvenile and inexperienced to have any foothold in Dunmer politics herself, and too tremblingly naïve (not to mention generously paid) to do anyone else's dirty work for them. The culprit was more likely to have posed as one of the washerstaff. Helseth had stormed immediately to the sculleries, but Morgiah saw little point. The perpetrator would be long gone.

She had been granted a respite, at least for the moment – but she knew Helseth was not fully convinced of her innocence. There were too many coincidences. A flare of anger erupted within her once more; what traitorous piece of filth was messing with their lives? Who thought they could get away with manipulating the relationship between her and Helseth?

She had just finished placing the glasses on the table when the lights momentarily winked out, and with a slight pressure of magicka in the room, a red-cloaked figure materialised by the fireplace.

"Well," said the King of Worms, putting the still-glowing tourmaline gem on the table next to the wine, "this makes for a novel change, does it not?"

Morgiah's lips curved into a smile, the woes of the past hour slipping away like sand through an hourglass.

She had not seen him for nearly three years now. Reman's death, her move to Mournhold and the recent business with Helseth had driven much else from her mind. The long separation renewed her age-old astonishment at his ordinariness; the confusion of it, the disarmament.

But she, of course, was equal to that.

"It's rather refreshing, wouldn't you agree?" she said airily, filling his glass. "I almost feel embarrassed; after three decades, this is the first time _I've_ entertained _you."_

He settled into the green leather chair by the fire. "Princess, you have been entertaining me for years."

She ignored that with pointed delicacy, filling her own glass and taking a sip. The wine superseded even her standards, much to her pleasure. Pulling up a velvet-cushioned divan to the other side of the fire, she stirred the coals into a momentary blaze. "I trust you found my couriers effective?"

"I took great delight in seeing our nation's saviour once more after all these years, although I must say she has poor taste where Totems are concerned. It would have looked so much nicer on my mantelpiece than in the Underking's desiccated grip." He sighed. "Alas, one cannot win every battle."

"How magnanimous of you to forgive her."

She sensed his amusement. "I must confess our little artefact foray shortly afterwards took the edge off my disappointment."

"That makes two of us. You may have wheedled my First out of me, but I must say, my Second proved more interesting in any case."

"Ah, yes," the King murmured, sitting back with the goblet held lightly in his gloved hand. "You always were infuriatingly cagey on the subject of your _Second._ Did the Infinium live up to your expectations?"

"It surpassed them." For a moment she was lost in time, remembering the swathe of images that had crowded in on her at the Glenumbra coven, and the uncomfortably intimate familiarity it had yielded of the creature that now sat on the other side of the fire.

The King could not fail to notice her sudden change of mood; he paused, catching something of the atmosphere that flowed between them, obviously mystified by its nature.

Morgiah gathered herself. "Speaking of arcane knowledge, I have occasion to petition yours. Things have been escalating here in Morrowind. No doubt Bomba 'Lurrina and Nenya gave you some indication as to the details?"

To her relief, the King did not press the issue. "Briefly. I understand you're having something of a family tiff."

Instantly Helseth's betrayed face flooded before Morgiah's eyes; with effort, she pushed it away. _"Tiff_ is an interesting way to put it. I'd call it more a tempest. My brother is embroiled in some kind of covert operation, and the more I discover of it, the more I mislike. Bomba 'Lurrina has confided a most disturbing theory to me; I am eager to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible."

"Hm," said the King slowly. "And what, exactly, have you discovered?"

She had already decided this evening's mess was not worth discussing; it was personal, a family affair. "Bomba 'Lurrina and Nenya are convinced he is doing something clandestine with golems, although their allegations seem fantastical to the point of absurdity. I am sure, however, that he is definitely involved in several major recent deaths and disappearances – among those no less than Divayth Fyr and Vivec." A small frown appeared between her brows, as if pressed by a knife. "Sire, a _god_ has disappeared. I cannot possibly fathom his reasons, but Helseth's ambition and recklessness have escalated alarmingly since our days in Wayrest. I fear for him, and for what may come of this madness."

The King was silent for several long moments, a flurry of unspoken activity going on behind the pinpoints in his hood. Then his posture relaxed, and he leaned his head back.

"Ah," he breathed, like a man who has just quenched a deep thirst. "Divayth Fyr, you say? Yes, that fits – it fits perfectly."

"Sire?" Morgiah was momentarily thrown off-track.

She felt as if he was smiling again. "For some months now I have been aware of a most intriguingly ferocious presence in the planes of Oblivion. I could not approach close enough to discover its nature, but now I am all but certain. No other mage in Tamriel has the strength of will to achieve such a thing. Divayth Fyr would not give in to murder without a fight, after all, and his aptitude for the arcane rivals even my own."

Morgiah felt her heart skip a beat. "Ser Fyr is _alive?"_

"I would say rather in a state of suspension. Your charming brother may have found some way to slip under his guard – Aedra knows how, he must have discovered some truly formidable weapon – but a sorcerer such as Divayth Fyr is not someone you can dispatch with mere blade or poison. He is clinging to the gate of Oblivion with all the strength his aeons have given him, until he finds a way to force himself back through."

Wild excitement shot through Morgiah. "But this is just what I wanted to ask! Your art, Sire – can you bring him back?"

The King gave a sudden laugh. "It _would_ be rather fascinating to hear what he has to say, would it not? If Helseth really is behind this bizarre occurrence, Fyr will have all the information you could possibly want. His motives, his means… I must admit, Princess, the intrigue of the situation is not lost on me."

"When could such a ceremony be performed?"

"Theoretically, in the next few days. I assume you wish to be present?"

"If you would permit it."

The King steepled his fingers. "It would of course be preferential to undertake the ritual in Scourg Barrow, but I understand from your renewed use of couriers that your usual method of transportation has let you down."

Morgiah produced the beryl-gem, frowning. "A most inconvenient time for the enchantment to fade. Though I must say, given its frequent usage, I find it remarkable the effect lasted so long."

The King reached out; she placed it in his gloved palm. "I will renew it as soon as possible. In the meantime, it is no great trouble to execute the rite from your end. It will be simple; his spirit is, as I say, at the very threshold of Oblivion. I give my word you will not end up with a ruin of an office. Scourg Barrow is still standing, after all."

Morgiah smirked. "You mean you _don't_ blow it up on a regular basis? One would never think so, judging by the state of the décor in the Great Hall."

The King sighed. "Princess, I am a busy man. Regrettably the perusal of curtain-fabrics is not part of my schedule. If this state of affairs distresses you, you are more than welcome to oversee the refurbishment yourself."

"Perhaps," she said airily. "It's probably my due. After all, were it not for my timely intervention, Scourg Barrow might long ago have been overrun by the Order of Arkay."

"Ah yes," he said pensively. "A favour you never asked returned, as I remember."

Morgiah didn't answer, but she looked at him, suddenly serious.

"I want you to return it now," said she.

There was a pause.

"After so long?" said the King slowly, sensing the change in the room. She had looked like this once before: thirty years ago, when she had told him her real name in the interview-room at Scourg Barrow.

"Very well," he said, rising and pacing along the bookcase. "What would you have me do? Name your desire and you shall have it. Do you have enemies you wish removed? Should I reveal to you the truths of Necromancy? Or do you want to see outside the mortal plane, where the sun and moons are alive and close enough to touch?"

"No," said Morgiah. "I want to see you."

For the second time in all their years of acquaintance, she had said something to which the King of Worms had no reply.

She hardly dared move. She was quite certain that if anyone but she had voiced this request, their lifespan would be a thing of the past by now. He had frozen with his back to her, and for a long time neither of them stirred; Morgiah's heart beat so hard against her ribs she felt sure he would hear it. Then she heard another noise that made the beat skip completely – she heard breath.

At first she thought it was her own. She had never heard breath from him before. In an instant, she realised that the same glamour that filled his hood with shadow must also have masked the sound of everything but his voice, and then it hit her: he had done this because breath sounds _alive. _

He was not supposed to be alive.

He turned around, and her whole body tingled with delirious excitement. The shadow under his hood was no longer black and impenetrable, but a normal shade in which she could just make out the line of a jaw.

Slowly, very slowly, she approached. What would she see? A lich? A daedra? Another being entirely, a body so changed by Oblivion that it was no longer recognisable as mortal? She was so close now that she could see the shades of candlelight playing across the _something_ that was under the red cloak.

She stopped, near enough to hear the impossible breathing. She reached up to the cloak; he did not stop her. Then she closed her fingers around the cloth, and lowered the hood.

One of the lamps ran short of oil and died out. She didn't even notice. Time was still, as if the gods were holding their breath.

After what seemed like hours, they moved. She let him leave without a word, as she knew he wanted to.


	32. Before The Storm

**A/N: **Thank you for your reviews, **bhen** and **Clodia**! **Clodia**, I agree - I have my own ideas of what was under the hood, and at first I put more clues in. But then I realised it is much better not to say anything at all, and simply let the reader's imagination run wild; after all, the King of Worms has become a fairly popular character since Oblivion and lots of people have their own image of him. Who am I to describe him otherwise?

* * *

The King And I

Chapter Thirty – Before The Storm

* * *

In the pleasant lamp-lit common room of Godsreach's Winged Guar, Nenya and Caius Cosades joined Bomba 'Lurrina for a well-earned late supper.

The two women greeted each other with an energetic hug, coming as something of a surprise to both – neither of them, particularly Bomba, were easily given to physical affection. The Khajiit returned to her seat with faint self-consciousness, marvelling at her own enthusiasm.

"Glad you could make it," she purred innocently over her scuttle and kwama-egg omelette, noting how close the Nord stood to her one-time Blademaster. "I thought you might be… _busy_ for a while."

Caius gave her a death-glare, his cheeks reddening. Nenya, however, seemed preoccupied.

"Did you hear about Gwynabyth?" she asked solemnly, flumping into a chair and kicking the omnipresent warhammer noisily under the table.

Bomba sobered at once. "Yes. Her companion… the young man…"

"We went to Eadwyrd's lodgings this afternoon," Nenya said, biting her lip. "No reply. I wanted to say sorry for missing the funeral."

"You couldn't help it," Caius reassured her. "We didn't even know until yesterday." Bomba 'Lurrina did not fail to notice the uncharacteristic gentleness in his tone.

But Nenya toyed with her goblet, looking miserable. "I don't think they really knew anyone else here… they were the first friendly people I met in Morrowind, you know. They were on their way back to Glenumbra, and we crossed paths in Seyda Neen when I'd just left the prison ship. They gave me a Restore Health recipe that saved my life more than once, even being so useless at potions…"

Bomba blinked, going back a few words and focusing on the previous sentence. "Wait, wait. _Prison _ship?"

Nenya seemed to realise what she'd just said; she put her goblet down sheepishly. "Oh, yes. I, um… I didn't mention that before, did I?"

Caius raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You haven't told her?"

"Told me what?" Bomba demanded. "How on Nirn did you land yourself in prison?"

Nenya sighed. "It's how I came to Morrowind. They deported me to Vvardenfell after a month in the Imperial jail, and the Winterhold lockups before that. They freed me in Seyda Neen with a package to take to Caius; Emperor's orders. I suppose they'd already decided I fitted the Nerevarine prophecies."

"But what were you doing in prison in the first place?"

To her surprise, Caius snorted.

"Shut up," Nenya groused, aiming a swipe at his arm. "It's not funny."

"Not in the slightest," he obliged, grinning.

"Shut _up!_ And Bom, you can wipe that look off your whiskers; if you haven't been in prison before I'll eat my hammer."

"What were you in for?" Bomba 'Lurrina demanded, ignoring the sally, her omelette growing cold on the plate.

Nenya chewed her lip. "I… broke a vase."

Bomba gave her a _look._

"You were imprisoned in Winterhold, transferred to Cyrodiil and deported to Vvardenfell… for breaking a vase."

"It was an expensive one, all right?" Nenya said defensively as the barman brought over two more plates of food. "I was in the Winterhold marketplace with my foster brother, and it just… caught on my elbow, you know?"

"Mm," Bomba agreed with a twitch of her mouth, thinking of Scourg Barrow. "Sounds likely."

"I was trying to make amends, but the stallholder got nasty and Fjordan was always a bit overprotective, so all three of us ended up in cells for the night. There must have been Blades hanging around in Winterhold who thought I fit the bill for the Emperor's orders, so they sent me on to Cyrodiil."

"And you didn't think it was _odd_ they were transferring you to the Capital jail for upsetting a provincial market stallholder?" Bomba 'Lurrina looked as if she was torn between annoyance and amusement.

"Well…" Nenya hesitated. "It was quite a _nice_ vase," she said meekly.

Bomba 'Lurrina sighed. "Nenya, for someone so perceptive and intelligent, you can be reallythick."

Caius was laughing again. "I thought she was lying at first. I was sure she must be getting away with murder somewhere."

"_Your_ murder if you don't give it a rest," Nenya grumped – but when she brought her hand out from under the table, Bomba saw their fingers were linked. She smiled.

"Anyhow," Nenya continued, getting stuck into her own food, "don't beat about the bush, Bom. What did Morgiah say of our report? Did you tell her everything?"

Bomba 'Lurrina put her cutlery down, her smile gone.

"I told her everything. I assume Caius –?"

"Nenya filled me in," he affirmed.

"Spent most of the journey chewing it over," Nenya elaborated, attacking her food with the gusto of a ravenous guar.

"Well," Bomba 'Lurrina frowned, "I don't know if she believes us."

Nenya looked up, surprised. "Doesn't _believe _us? What do you –?"

"Oh, I don't think she thinks we're outright _lying,"_ clarified the Khajiit. "It's more like she's not too keen on the conclusions we've drawn from the available evidence."

"But what's to doubt? It all fits!"

"Not so loud," Bomba hissed, glancing compulsively over her shoulder at the other patrons.

"Sorry," Nenya modified, subduing her voice to a more acceptable level. "But I mean come on, the evidence –"

"– is inconclusive," Bomba finished. "I mean, we'veseen the connections… but what real proof do we have?"

"Proof?" Nenya looked incredulous. "Who's going to need _proof_ when a fifty-foot golem turns up for dinner?"

"I _know,_ Nenya, but can't you see how far-fetched it sounds? We don't even have the full story, just conjecture!"

"Look," Caius interrupted, "this will get us nowhere. It's time to take stock. Exactly what information do we have that points to the whole Akulakhan thing?"

"Gortwog said Helseth's been sniffing around the Iliac Bay capitals for information on Numidium," Bomba 'Lurrina replied at once.

Caius twisted his mouth. "That's not exactly damning evidence. How would he even begin to rebuild something as complicated as a golem? Even if he had schematics, how could he employ an entire workforce without a word of it leaking out? People talk."

"Maybe he's keeping them captive," Nenya shrugged.

"An entire workforce, without a whisper of rumour? Don't you see how _unlikely_ that is?"

"Well, there's always the connection with Nulfaga and Aetherius," Bomba countered.

"Aetherius' only real connection with golems is that Numidium's pieces were spread through the plane when it was broken," Cauis pointed out. "Akulakhan just collapsed. It's buried under a ton of Red Mountain. And anyway, how do you know Nulfaga's disappearance is related to Helseth? She must be past ninety now. How do you know she hasn't just died in that festering castle of hers?"

"Well, we heard voices inside…" Bomba 'Lurrina hesitated, trying to collate the facts rationally. "And then there are the black-robes; don't forget them. We saw one at Shedungent, and they've been sighted around the Palace and Tel Fyr."

"Then in this whole mess, the only thing that really connects all the different pieces are the black-robes," concluded Cauis. "And we have no idea who they are or what they're doing; only the guess that they _may_ be working for Helseth."

Nenya snorted. "It doesn't take a genius to make _that_ assumption."

"But that's still what it is: an assumption." Caius spread his hands. "I'm just being Dagon's advocate; you know I believe you. But trust me; I've been a spymaster for twelve years, and stuff like this _will not stick_ unless you have something substantial. Not to mention," he continued, lowering his voice, "if this is true, Helseth is committing treason. If the Emperor finds out, it'll be execution. No wonder Morgiah's keeping quiet; he may be a homicidal little bastard, but he's still her _brother."_

Nenya chewed her lip. "I wish we had Eadwyrd's information. He and Gwynabyth were at Tel Fyr; they must have found out something about the black-robes there."

"Whatever it is, Morgiah's keeping it close," Bomba 'Lurrina admitted. "She didn't tell me anything about Eadwyrd's report. It might have solved some of these riddles."

"Well, we can hardly go and ask him now. We don't even know if he's still in Mournhold, and in any case we can't knock on the door and demand a chat about whatever Gwynabyth died for. He's grieving." Nenya looked upset again at the thought of the Breton couple.

"What we need to do now," Caius said, "is stick together and pool our information. We stay close to Mournhold and keep our eyes open. If we're right about Helseth, we need to act quickly when the midden hits the fan." He furrowed his brow. "We should get Solon in on this, but I don't know where he lives."

"Solon's out of the picture," Bomba 'Lurrina said, remembering Morgiah's dismissal. "Morgiah doesn't trust him. She sent him away."

Nenya looked hugely indignant. "What? _Why?_ He's the best there is! She better hope he doesn't get recruited by anyone else; fine thing it'd be if Helseth got hold of him, wouldn't it?"

Caius narrowed his eyes. "Did she say what her reasons were?"

"She said he was a wild card," Bomba 'Lurrina shrugged. "To be honest, he did seem… different. Peculiar."

Caius sighed. "That's what I was afraid of."

Nenya rounded on him, putting Bomba 'Lurrina comically in mind of a matron scolding a naughty child. "You _knew_ about this?"

"No! I mean, not about Morgiah getting rid of him…"

"Then what?"

Caius sighed, troubled. "Look, there's something I didn't tell you. Dren didn't die in the fire. When I went upstairs to get Solon, Dren was lying on the floor next to him. He'd been stabbed."

Nenya gaped. "Stabbed? Solon _killed_ him?"

"I don't know and I didn't ask – but it's not Mysticism Theory, is it? He was just sitting staring at the wall; didn't even see me at first. And on the way home, he was… strange." He looked uncomfortable. "I didn't say anything before because I wasn't sure what really happened. Solon hinted at something going on between him and Dren… some personal dispute. I guessed he'd been fooling about with Dren's wife, and got caught."

"Dren didn't have a wife," Nenya pointed out, still looking unnerved by this revelation.

"Have you considered the possibility that what was going on between Solon and Dren was going on _exclusively_ between Solon and Dren?" Bomba 'Lurrina asked dryly.

Caius looked nonplussed. "What do you mean…?" The realisation dawned. "Oh. OH."

There was a brief silence as all three contemplated this prospect.

"Maybe you and he should get together, Bom," Nenya suggested. "You could set up a 'Lovers Beware' group."

"Oh, very funny," Bomba 'Lurrina said sourly. "Anyway, Lord Woodbourne was _Elysana's_ lover, not mine."

"I'm not even going to ask," Caius said exasperatedly, taking a fortifying swig of ale and steering the subject resolutely away from Solon's hypothetical lovers. "Look, let's stick to the topic, shall we? We stay close, we wait, we watch. The second anything comes up that points towards golems, we go straight to Morgiah. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Nenya.

"And if Stendarr is merciful," Bomba 'Lurrina said, pushing her plate away grimly, "it won't be too late by the time we do."

* * *

There was a knock at the door of Helseth's study.

"Come."

His steward entered with Tienius Delitian, captain of the guard, the latter holding a whimpering and struggling figure.

"Ah, Dralen, Delitian" Helseth said pleasantly. "Enter, please, and bring our guest with you. How do you fare this evening, Kippet?"

The Bosmer maid looked up at him. Her cap was askew, and tears were brimming in her eyes. "Majesty… please, your Majesty…"

"Come now. Anyone would think Delitian was ungentle!"

The guard captain smirked.

"Now, take a seat. Don't tremble, girl; I won't eat you! Good grief. It has come to my attention, Kippet, that my sister has forgiven your deplorable transgressions. Is that not so?"

Kippet nodded slowly, her dark eyes wide and fearful.

"And she is fond of you, is she not? She trusts you, or did so before your unfortunate blunder with the bittergreen. She allows you to tidy her office and stoke the fire, correct? It is a room that few others have access to, I imagine."

Kippet's face crumpled as she realised where the conversation was leading. "Please, your Majesty… I don't want to betray her! She's been good to me!"

Helseth banged his fist down on the desk suddenly, making her jump in fright. "Peace, maid," he said with a voice like ice. "Who spoke of betrayal? How dare you accuse your lord of treachery?"

Kippet's mouth snapped shut, her lips quivering.

Helseth's ugly expression melted away as fast as it had come, his tone pleasant once more. "I called you here, Kippet, because I am concerned at the state of the Princess' quarters. As I understand, her desk is full of papers; so very untidy! And that falls under your job description, Kippet. You will tidy up the letters in her desk, and bring them here. Do you understand?"

"Please–" the poor elf began once more, before the words died on her lips at Helseth's unforgiving stare.

"_Do you understand?"_

"Yes, your Majesty," Kippet whispered.

Helseth smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Good girl. If you please me, you might even earn some leave to visit your family. Where is it they live? Eldenroot, is it not?"

Kippet looked up, a second realisation dawning on her face, horror flowing into every feature.

"Your grandmother is quite frail now, isn't she? Such a shame. I hear your parents have been blessed with a little baby boy, though – isn't that exciting? Your first little brother! Of course," he continued blithely, "the world is such a dangerous place for elderly grandmothers and tiny babies these days. So awful, don't you think? What with bandit activity on the rise, and sickness so easily caught by the weak, and those tremendously inflammable wooden houses you Bosmer tend to live in – well, it doesn't bear thinking about, does it?"

Tears were pouring down Kippet's face now; she began to gasp and sob. "Please," she croaked. "Please, your Majesty…"

"Don't repeat yourself, girl; it is dull. Given that the world is such a dangerous place now, I suggest you complete your duties quickly so you can go and visit them. Do you agree?"

She nodded, shoulders shaking, her face buried in her hands.

"Good. Now get out of my sight."

The girl fled.

* * *

In the emptied Almalexia lodgings, Eadwyrd knelt on the bare boards and looked at the box in front of him. There had been calling and hammering on the door earlier, but it had passed through his mind like smoke, insubstantial and ignored.

He had been given the box by the funerary priest – a small wooden chest, containing Gwynabyth's meagre worldly possessions. He took them out slowly one by one, laying them out on the floor.

A simple blue dress. Unbearable; it smelled like her. Her ivory ounce-measure, probably the most valuable thing she had owned. A wooden comb. A pair of shoes. A hair ribbon.

He hadn't told her. She had never known.

He closed the box and put it away, and that was when he finally found himself able to cry.

And once it started he found it went on and on, like his body was at last allowed some cruel form of relief – contracted violent sobs that left his chest painful and his lungs gasping for air. Something else was in control now; his limbs felt too weak to be alive, and the only thing he could do was crouch and shudder and choke and wail, tears soaking his sleeves and pattering on the bare floorboards like some horrid perversion of rain.

It would never truly stop. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. It would never truly stop.


	33. The Woes Of King Helseth

The King And I

Chapter Thirty-One – The Woes Of King Helseth

* * *

Her heart in her mouth, Kippet crouched in the doorway of Morgiah's study.

It was late. If she was caught, she only had to say she was stoking the fire – after all, that was her job. But even though she had an alibi, the 'extra' duties she'd been given made her feel sick with guilt. She was already living on Morgiah's good grace. To betray her by accident was one thing, but to do so _willingly…_

She shut the door quietly and removed the lockpick from its concealed place in her shoe. In two minutes, she had the desk-drawer open. Helseth had been correct; there was a sheaf of loose papers in there. Feeling wretched, she picked a few up and flipped through them.

She frowned. This was strange – these looked like notes for a story, or one of those murder-mystery dinner-games the nobles were so fond of playing – until she noticed the names of those involved. Her eyes snagged one sentence, and then she was reading and reading.

Ten minutes later she sank to the floor, horrified. These listed crimes – Morgiah suspected the _King_ was responsible? Murders? Disappearances?

She suddenly felt terribly afraid, even more so than before. What she wanted most of all was to get out of here – this room, the Palace, Morrowind itself – to run to her family in Valenwood and never look back. But Helseth knew where they lived… she felt cold at the thought. She had to find something to appease him, or Mara knew what he would do.

But then she would be helping a killer… and even if Helseth _hadn't_ committed the crimes Morgiah had listed, he had still threatened her. He had threatened her _family. _He was a Bad Man.

An idea came to her. She would take him one page of notes, or one letter – the most mundane, trivial and insignificant thing she could find – and say Morgiah had removed the rest. That way, she would be obeying the King, but hopefully not to Morgiah's detriment. The Princess was obviously trying to figure out what her brother was doing, and as far as Kippet was concerned, the sooner the better.

Rifling through the piles of parchment, she came across something that seemed just right. A simple letter, containing minimal information.

_Destination: HRH Princess Morgiah, Royal Palace, Mournhold, Almalexia, Morrowind._

_Loredas 25__th__ First Seed, 3E 429_

_Princess,_

_My thanks for the kindly-given tourmaline gem; your charming couriers were most efficient. As for your own method of transport, I apologise for its decline. We must rectify that at our next meeting. Shall we say nine o' clock this coming Mourndas eve; the 28__th__? I am greatly looking forward to playing the guest rather than the host, for once…_

The letter was short, innocuous; of a personal nature. Surely even Helseth couldn't glean anything from a note arranging a meet-up between friends. Even better, it wasn't signed with a full name – only initials.

Feeling sure she had formulated the perfect compromise, Kippet replaced the papers, re-locked the drawer, and left the room in darkness.

* * *

Helseth sat in his study, clenching and unclenching his fists.

He should be reviewing the newest schematics report from the Master Dreamer, but his mind felt full of chokeweed. He knew Morgiah had retired to her chambers for the night – he had seen her leave the study more than an hour ago – but there was always a chance she might return, despite the lateness of the hour. If the maid was discovered, he hoped to Stendarr she had the presence of mind to create a likely excuse. Gods knew the girl was dim enough to appear innocent; it had saved her the first time, after all.

He couldn't sit still. Wine; that would help. Shoving his chair back abruptly, took a bottle from cabinet behind him, and turned to find a glass…

There was the silhouette of a man in the window.

His heart screamed into overdrive, the shadowy shape flaring across his consciousness like a scalding needle. Before he could think, he had hurled the bottle with all his strength – but the figure ducked, shards of wet glass exploding on the window-frame and cascading all around him. The rich smell of Tamika Vintage filled the air.

"Well done!" laughed the apparition, vaulting over the windowsill and dropping to the plush carpeted floor, half of which was now soaked in wine. "The Morags will be hard-pressed to peg _you."_

_One of them,_ whispered the part of Helseth's mind that was still functioning. _They've come for you. Kill it, KILL IT…_

His hand automatically curled into a spellcasting gesture behind his back. "Now that you've wasted a very expensive bottle of wine, perhaps you would care to enlighten me as to who the Dagon you are?" That was good; his voice was steady. It would put the intruder at ease long enough for him to gather his energy into a spell of blinding and burning. _Kill it, KILL IT…_

The trespasser pulled his hood off, and the spell died on Helseth's lips.

"Good evening," said Solon in a voice like smoked honey.

It was hard to get the words out. "You – the assassins –"

"They are nothing to do with me, I assure you. From what I hear they've been frightfully incompetent."

The unspoken implication here seemed to be _"…and I'm not"._

"I've come to pay my courtesies," the mer carried on blithely, perching on the edge of the desk. "You and I might be doing business together at some stage, after all. It's only polite. I'm beginning a new career, you see. I'm the replacement."

Was it Helseth's own state of mind colouring the exchange, or was their something… _wild_ about the mer? A kind of recklessness, a faint hysteria?

"I'd like you to know," purred the intruder with a searing gaze that seemed to pour fire and ice down his back at the same time, "that I'm _better_ than Dren."

There was no time to parse this nonsensical statement before a soft knock sounded on the door, cutting through Helseth's ragged nerves like a knife. His hand was still behind his back, frozen in an impotent casting pose. He released it, feeling his rigid finger-joints crackle as he did so.

"Who is it?" he barked.

"It's – It's Kippet, your Majesty," came a tremulous voice from the other side.

The maid.

"You," he snapped, swinging back round to the window. "Tell me your name and -"

He stopped mid-sentence. The room was empty. The mer had disappeared, and the drapes blew gently in the breeze.

* * *

After the tireless ministrations of Nenya, the abandoned Dwemer interior of Red Mountain had grown quiet for a time. For a few short months, the dim corridors were free of the tread of their Blighted inhabitants.

Not so any longer.

Under the desolate surface, a hive of activity buzzed with all the demonic purpose of a diseased anthill. Tel Fyr had been sealed; the centre of operations was now here, in the heart of the mountain. The Dreamers had relocated in full force, and the only journeys they would now make to the outside world would be to take reports to their sovereign.

In the central cavern, something vast stretched to the shadowed vaults above, gleaming with the labour of a hundred desiccated hands. Makeshift walkways and viewpoints wound in a spiral around the cavern's walls, upon one of which three black-robed figures could be seen ascending.

"I estimate a week," the central figure – the Master – informed his subordinates. "Perhaps a day or two more. The schematic report, if you please?"

The left-hand cultist looked uneasy – the Master's breath was laboured, and there was a definite asymmetrical quality to his gait. "The metalwork is complete, Master. The Patients have been most industrious. The Totem, too, is finished; the only thing that now delays us is the Mantella."

"His Majesty will contact us when he is ready," rasped the Master. His hands made compulsive movements, clenching and unclenching. "Has Shedungent been sealed?"

"Yes," affirmed the second cultist. "Nulfaga has been successfully transferred; we have opened an Aetheric entrance into the Facility Cavern itself. There is no longer any need to maintain the gateway into Shedungent. It has been closed."

"Excellent," said the Master, sounding anything but. He leant for a moment on the copper rail that divided the walkway from the abyss beyond. The metal buckled slightly under his fingers. The two cultists exchanged glances.

"Leave me," he commanded, a small red bubble forming at the corner of his mouth.

They did so, gladly.

* * *

In the dark of his study, Helseth was illuminated only by candlelight. In his frozen hand was the letter Morgiah's maid had reluctantly turned over to him.

His eyes bore into the page. He was shaking – with excitement, or anger, or fear? He could hardly tell. All he could see were the initials at the bottom of the letter. _KoW._

So it was true. He had been right. They had been meeting in secret for Akatosh knew how long. All these years, Morgiah had kept quiet as a mouse … did even their _mother _know? He thought not – or perhaps he _wished_ not. The thought of the two of them in confidence, laughing up their sleeves at his continued cluelessness, made his blood boil. _I'll show them. I'll show them both. Better yet, I'll show _him_ – that THING. That MONSTER._

It explained so much. _So much._ The assassination attempts were this creature's doing, he would stake his life on it. He – no, _it _– must have been using Morgiah to get to the Morrowind monarchy. He knew it couldn't really have come from her, of course. She clearly wasn't in her right mind. Without this creature's influence, the thought of hurting him would never have entered her darkest dreams. It was all this _thing's_ doing.

Now more than ever was he determined to carry out his plan for the Mantella. What better way to humiliate this blot on Nirn than to use its soul, its very life-essence, to power the machine that would herald his immaculate conquest of Tamriel? This Worm King would lament the day he laid his decaying eyes on the sister of His Majesty Hlaalu Helseth.

In the deepest, darkest recesses of his heart, there was the seed of self-awareness that told him this 'revenge' was little more than a child's jealousy. All these years, even with the tempestuous history of their youth, he had still thought of Morgiah as his own, his closest, his best. To think that she might have shared such a bond with someone else for nearly as long drove a splinter of jealous rage through his heart.

This, however, he would not entertain. He was angry because she had put his conquest in jeopardy; that was the reason.

He turned the letter over. On the reverse, there were a few untidy notes in Morgiah's spidery script:

_Summoning Ceremony; provis. Mourndas 5__th__ Rain's Hand, 10pm, study. KoW to arrive first in saferoom & make prep. Divayth Fyr trapped? Question. Get Kip to remove unnecessary chairs etc; make room. _

His heart nearly stopped beating. They knew about Fyr. Gods, they _knew._ Filthy, sneaking, blighthearted _traitors…_

The paper tore in his hands, but a vicious triumph was now spreading through him. Beyond his wildest hopes, he now had a date, time and location for the _thing's_ presence. Mourndas; so soon! Better yet, he might even be able to engineer it so Morgiah thought the _thing _had simply broken their engagement and not appeared. If her scrawled notes were correct, she would not join him until later, when the summoning ceremony was fully prepared…

If the gods were kind, by the time she arrived it would already be too late.

* * *

**A/N: Clodia**, thank you again - I always thinking about the ways different people's Player Characters stumble into the main quest, and something so trivial and ridiculous seems to suit Nenya! Also welcome **charwors**, glad you're enjoying the show!


	34. Interlude 12 From Passion To Clockwork

The King And I

Chapter Thirty-Two – Interlude Twelve; How Passion Became Clockwork

* * *

_Firsthold, First Seed 3E 409. It is twenty years before the present day. Morgiah is 33._

* * *

Under Masser waxing and Secunda waning crescent, the Firsthold Library pierced the violet sky like a thorn of pearly silver.

The summit had been fashioned into an observatory, walls exquisitely sculpted from sheets of clear glass, heated and manipulated to form a single unbreaking arc. The spire had been created to penetrate cloud-level, and from this transparent enclosure, the viewer might enjoy unparalleled vistas of the starry landscape above. If the sky was free of clouds, all Firsthold and the surrounding countryside would be laid bare to the observatory telescope. If not, the observatory would be bound by a soft celestial carpet, the faint glow of the tower's lantern the only touch of colour between the diamond-strewn heights above and the sea of misty ether below.

The cloud-carpet was thick tonight. Enshrined in her glassy pinnacle, Morgiah felt she could be the only living thing in the universe.

She had chosen a cloudy night on purpose; it would not do to undertake this task in the most visible location the entire Summerset Isles could offer. But with the carpet below her, the most visible location suddenly became the most secret. And that was well, because on the delicate astronomer's table beside the telescope, the Ogmha Infinium pulsed with slow vastness.

It put her uneasily in mind of a heartbeat.

She had come a long way for this. It had begun in Wayrest. It had taken her to Scourg Barrow, to the King of Worms, to Firsthold, to Reman, even to the confines of Oblivion itself. And now she was here with the artefact in front of her, she was… _afraid._

Not afraid of the thing itself, exactly, though the heartbeat pulse was certainly disturbing. More afraid of what it might _mean_. This would change her life, she knew. It would change _her._ How much? Was it worth opening this book if she lost herself somewhere inside it?

She almost withdrew her hand before she remembered Ocato in the quiet sunset light of the reading-room. He had seemed perfectly ordinary. Exceptionally clever, of course, but if the Infinium did not produce _that_ effect she would be asking the coven for her money back. There had been nothing about her interview with Ocato that suggested the Tome had had a negative effect on his personality.

_And if it changes you, _she reasoned, _would it really be so bad? Who __**are**__ you, in any case? Are you someone you want to be?_

She reached out and opened the book.

Time folded like a fan.

* * *

As the strands of fate twist and unravel, threads from different times and places may momentarily lie alongside each other. In the glass eyrie of Firsthold, Morgiah reads the Ogmha Infinium and feels herself changing. New doors appear in her mind, just as others close. Knowledge opens like a flower. It will not be the same now; she always knew this, and journeyed onward regardless. The natural shrewdness of her brain becomes something crystalline and machine-like, transforming passion into clockwork, tick tick tick.

But there are other strands too. Let us now look twenty years into the future, into the other half of Morgiah's heart. Into the Aetheric star-room, where the madman and the mute and the cripple have their home.

It is the madman who concerns us today. He is being asked a question by another madman; less subtle, this second person's madness, but just as damaging and just as dangerous.

"I must ask a boon of you, your Divine Grace," says Helseth to Vivec.

"Is it the children?" replies the golden one, his eyes as wide as a doe.

Helseth hesitates; it's hard to make much sense of the god these days, but the best way is always to humour him. "Yes, my Lord. They are in need of your protection, as we have said."

"Ah, yes," says Vivec, sagely nodding his head. "With the love for my people, I have made this Talisman for you." He holds out an object; a small tablet which glows with lurid iridescence.

Helseth makes no move to touch the thing. "Yes, your Grace, and it is powerful indeed, though the strength of your love. This boon of which I speak, however, is more urgent. A wicked enemy is coming to our homeland – the most depraved, evil, malevolent beast to stain Tamriel in many hundreds of years. We know it is coming, but we cannot stop it. With your strength and wisdom, your Grace, you are our only hope."

The god's eyes are stretched, showing the whites all around them. "The Talisman is not enough? What of their bones? What of the children's _bones,_ young one?"

He is beginning to shake; Helseth can see the warning signs. He must act quickly.

"They are in dire need of your benevolence, holy Lord," he urges. "There is only one way this beast may be killed: you must turn him into a soulgem. Then we may lock him in a metal chest, never to return."

"But how will we find him, young one? Will he come to me? Will he come to me alone?"

"We must ambush him, your Grace," Helseth says firmly. "There is no other way. Your servant here, the old woman, will open a magic door for you. It will take you straight into his den. I have the exact time and date of his appearance. You will surprise him, and we will again be safe."

Vivec leans forward. Nauseated, Helseth's instinct is to back away – but he forces himself to be still, and with revulsion, sees that the god's eyes are brimming with tears.

"You shall take me," Vivec whispers, gripping his arm with wasted fingers of unexpected strength. "We will go. I will do this thing for you."

Somewhere in the darkness, an old woman wails.


	35. Betrayal

The King And I

Chapter Thirty-Three – Betrayal

* * *

The hours were crawling. The clock ticked; Morgiah chewed her lip.

In less than an hour the King of Worms would require her presence in the meeting-room. To Morgiah, the entire day had held an undercurrent of quiet expectation. It was not the simple quiet that comes with serenity, however – it reminded her eerily of the eye of a hurricane.

It would have been better if she had something to distract herself with, but there was only the beat of her heart and the tick of the clock.

She had passed most of the day in her chambers, knowing that she could not risk running into her family without betraying the nervous tension she was feeling. In less than an hour the summoning of Divayth Fyr would commence, and there she might finally be given answers to the questions that had plagued her since her arrival in Mournhold.

The trouble was, did she really _want _those answers? There was so much at stake. Helseth was her little brother; did she really want to hear what Fyr might say?

She tried to empty her mind of all sentimentality. Barenziah had charged her with this; she must not falter now. She owed it not only to her mother, but to Gwynabyth, to every other innocent person whose life might be torn apart by whatever madness Helseth was planning. Whatever she discovered – if Nenya and Bomba 'Lurrina's fears _were_ true, perish the thought – could be dealt with internally. They could stop it before it caused any damage. They could work it out.

_Liar,_ said the treacherous voice in her head. _Stupid, naïve girl. Liar._

"Shut up," she hissed at the empty room.

The walls were closing in; she had been here all day. The feeling of claustrophobia intensified. _I have to get out._

Throwing the door open, Morgiah strode purposefully onto the mezzanine and headed towards her personal study; at the very least, she could go over her investigation notes while she waited. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the polished stone of the walls and was satisfied to see that her face was perfectly composed, devoid of what was happening beneath the surface. Her hands, too, were steady – as she looked at them she was suddenly thrown back into the past, onto the luminous stone of the gazebo chamber in Scourg Barrow, the Ancient Liches drawing forth into the light. Her first ever visit. Her hands had been steady then, too.

That was good. Whenever her mind betrayed her, she could be sure her body would not.

As she neared the reception hall, a familiar voice caught her ear… Helseth? And someone else, someone crying?

Without thinking, she changed direction and swept towards the sound.

The scene she came upon was dramatised by the two flame-pits burning at either side of the main doors. Near the huge entrance gates to the Palace exterior, her brother stood looming over the diminutive form of Kippet, her Bosmer maid – and the girl was shivering, cowering in fright.

"Brother?" Morgiah's voice rang out sharply over the marble flagstones.

Helseth jerked round, and for one moment Morgiah was shocked by the brutality in his features. In that lapse of attention Kippet twisted and slipped from his grasp, and with a beseeching look of despair at Morgiah – an expression that the Princess was certain intended to convey some message, though she couldn't say what – the small figure dashed through the gateway and was lost to darkness.

Morgiah stared. What in Oblivion had _that _been about?

"I thought we had agreed the girl was blameless, Helseth."

Her brother straightened up. "Oh, it was nothing to do with that," he said smoothly. "Young Kippet is taking an extended leave of absence. It seems her family in Eldenroot is not coping well without her."

Even a halfwit could have seen through such an outrageous lie, but what could she do? Accuse him of… what? Even if he _had_ been planning something for the girl, Morgiah had interrupted and prevented it. Kippet would be slipping through the dark streets of Mournhold by now, and even the Ordinators would be hard pressed to catch a Wood Elf who didn't want to be found.

"I should take an early night if I were you, sister," Helseth said inscrutably. With the light of the flames licking across his face he looked almost sepulchral, and it unnerved her more than she could say. "You have not seemed yourself lately. Perhaps you are coming down with something."

"There does seem to be something going round," she said coldly.

He smiled – an expression that contained no warmth whatsoever, only a hint of smugness that she couldn't account for – then turned, disappearing into the North Wing passage.

Morgiah covered the remaining distance to her study with deep foreboding.

When she arrived, she looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes. The allotted meeting-room was close, only just around the corner; she would not have far to walk. Helseth's bestial expression filled her mind. It was strange; he had looked at her slyly, almost triumphantly. And the stricken face of Kippet as she had dashed away…

Inexorably, like a mass of water pouring steadily over a precipice, the truth began to fall into place. Kippet had been _forced_ to leave, that much was obvious. Helseth must have made her do something she was ashamed of. There was one thing above all others she was useful to Helseth for, Morgiah realised with a jolt: to spy.

Immediately, furiously, her eyes raked the study. Suddenly everything looked wrong, nothing seemed in its proper place; was it her imagination? What could Kippet have taken…? Her thoughts turned like lightning to her investigation notes in the desk drawer.

It was locked, of course, but now she looked, the mechanism was at a strange angle. She cursed; Bosmer were notoriously skilled thieves. Tugging at the handle, the drawer shot out in a rush, the papers sliding in a mess to the front. She scrabbled amongst them; was anything missing? All her notes appeared to be there, but of course, Kippet didn't need to take them to memorise their information…

She replaced the sheaf in the drawer, seething with frustration, and then she noticed. Something _was_ missing.

She picked up the papers and rifled through them again; had she made a mistake? Was it stuck behind her notes? Stendarr, Mercy… but no, it was gone.

Kippet had taken the King of Worms' letter.

And at that moment of terrible realisation, Hermaeus Mora gripped her so hard she almost screamed. Images burst in front of her eyes – a rending tear in the fabric of reality, a pair of mad golden eyes, and the King… in the dark shadow under his hood there was a skull, a hideous gaping emptiness that made her shudder and convulse, her lips unable to free the strangled cry behind them… and then it was over and she was back at her desk, shaking and gasping and sweating, with death everywhere.

She shoved back her chair and bolted. She was halfway along the corridor before she heard it crash to the floor.

And as she rounded the corner, some part of her ablaze with a horrific fear that clawed at her throat for release, she saw the open door of the meeting-room. She saw the patch of _nothing_ in the air – deeper than shadow, sicker than death, a window into another plane – she saw the flash of fire, felt the blistering heat, heard the inhuman keening that was a death-knell to her heart.

She saw the figure in the red cloak, and saw the same cloak fall to the floor, blue pinpoints of light extinguished. The cloak-clasp burned with the reflection of fire.

She halted, her body paralysed with ghastly inevitability, outside the ruined door – and it was now that the mind-breaking fear took on a physical form, for there was something, something appalling, crouched half in and half out of the window of nothingness. The dreadful quagmire-yellow of the damp skin, the incomprehensible angle of the shaking limbs, the spiderlike fingers that held a pulsing livid soulgem clutched to its wasted chest, the face… Oh Stendarr, the unfocused lunacy in those gaping lids!

Even as it vanished into the black window, she couldn't process that this sickening apparition – this awful mask of calm, dumb madness – was Vivec, the last of the Tribunal. Her thoughts were dead. Her eyes were blank, her mouth a frozen line.

The window into nothingness disappeared without a trace. The red cloak was a smouldering heap of ash.

She knelt down very, very slowly, and retrieved the cloak-clasp from its smoking centre. On her knees on the floor, there was a moment – a tiniest fraction of time – when her hands may have trembled.

She stood and left the room.

* * *

Helseth had doused the extra candles in his study.

The steward entered. "It is time," Helseth said. "I must leave the Palace immediately. You have the Guild Guide I requested?"

"Yes, your Majesty. She can send us as far as Vivec City."

"Good."

Dralen looked carefully around the room. "Your Majesty has no luggage for me to take?"

"No," Helseth said, taking the papers and approaching the door. "There will be no need."

The steward snuffed out the last candle, and they locked the door behind them.

* * *

In the darkest hour of the night, the new Imperial chambermaid quietly opened the door of HRH Morgiah's quarters.

She had volunteered for this position as soon as the news of Kippet's departure filtered through to the kitchens. It was the perfect opportunity, and she had her own reasons for courting proximity to the Hlaalu royal family.

The bedchamber was extremely dark, despite the pale moonlight falling through the mullioned window. The sky to the east had the faintest tinge of violet to it; dawn would be breaking within the hour.

The chambermaid tiptoed through to the sleeping area, frowning. The bed-linen was smooth, clearly undisturbed from the previous morning. Her Highness was not here. Could she have fallen asleep in her study? She did spend an inordinately long time in there. No matter – she could still stoke the fire and warm the room for her return, whenever that may be. The chambermaid balanced the coal-scuttle on her hip, and turned to approach the fireplace...

…And nearly dropped it in shock. Beside the cold grate sat Princess Morgiah, silent as a tombstone.

"I beg your pardon, your Highness," she blurted out before she could stop herself, her usually haughty voice unintentionally rising in pitch. "I didn't realise you'd be awake."

The Princess only seemed to become aware of her at her outburst; she had been staring into the dead embers of the cold fire. Something nestled in her lap, glinting in the moonlight – a brooch? Or a cloak-clasp, perhaps?

When Morgiah turned her head into the ghostlight, however, all such musings were forgotten. Her face was a carving of ice, and her eyes were pits of Oblivion.

"_Get out,"_ she said in a voice from which all traces of humanity had been erased.

This particular chambermaid had lived an extraordinary life; indeed, had seen a great many things, things that most normal people would not dare imagine. She did not consider herself one easily cowed.

But at those two words from Her Royal Highness Morgiah, she dropped the coal-scuttle and fled.

* * *

It is always quiet in this plane of Oblivion.

There is the darkness, and the dead. This is unchanging. The pouring of the waterfall, the ghostfall, the soulfall, into the abyss from which there is no return.

And there is the flame, of course. We have noted its presence before. Still it clings, as if with fingertips, to the yawning precipice over which the ghostfall dizzily spirals. How long can it cling for? For how long can something endure when time does not exist?

Extraordinarily, this question may now be answered. Because there is _something_ coming which will change the quiet waters of death forever. Something so strange and old and powerful that it warps the plane around it, souls branching to flow either side, reality curling and folding in on itself, fluttering like moth's wings. It is not a flame, because everyone is different in Oblivion. It is not a lantern, as of Tellanaco.

It is a gem. Green, if such things matter.

Morgiah would have known something of what was happening here, observing as she had the nature of Oblivion all those years ago in Firsthold, and she may well have guessed its meaning. Life, unfortunately, is never so convenient – which is a shame, because had she been witness, a spark might have reignited in her soul.

The flame and the gem meet, and when combined, the aeons of power and experience they share make them capable of more than each individual alone. Joined, they no longer merely _cling._

Together, the shapes begin to _move._


	36. Interlude 13 The Penultimate Reflection

**A/N: Clodia**, thank you! The ending section in Oblivion is less cryptic than you might think - it relates directly to the events earlier in the chapter.

I should also say that this chapter mentions some events concerned with the in-game literature; in particular, the book _The Firsthold Revolt_. I can't link from this site (annoying rule), but you can find it by Googling "Imperial Library Firsthold Revolt". It's short, and will give some insight into what has been happening in Firsthold while Helseth flees to Morrowind.

* * *

The King And I

Chapter Thirty-Four – Interlude Thirteen; The Penultimate Reflection

* * *

_Firsthold, Summurset Isle, Frostfall 3E 427. It is eighteen months before the present day. Morgiah is fifty-one._

* * *

It was dusk. The sky was like a bowl, indigoes and violets draining out of the west as if through some cosmic sinkhole. It laid an unreal light over the architecture of Firsthold, with no point of origin; the sun had already disappeared and the moon had not yet risen. There was only the dusk, steady and dim.

Of course, Firsthold had never really seemed _real_ to Morgiah, not even after all these years. She counted them sometimes, when she forgot. Twenty? Twenty-one? Could it really have been so long? The years shimmered like soap bubbles; separate, remote. It was as if she had been living in a trance.

Over time in Firsthold she had achieved a measure of respect from the city's people, though their love had always eluded her. It was an acceptable substitute, nonetheless. The Revolt had been the turning point, she could see with the benefit of hindsight. It had all been the fault of that simpering royal concubine, Gialene – that the girl thought she actually had a chance of cajoling Reman into marrying her said all Morgiah needed to know about her intelligence. Her plan to manipulate the commons' mistrust of their "Black Queen" to instigate a revolution was a good base, she had to admit – it had the scent of Elysana about it – but in the end, it lacked the finesse to bear fruit. She had often wondered in amusement what the outcome of locking Gialene and Elysana in a room together would be. As much as she was loath to admit it, Elysana could probably rip out the Altmer woman's entrails without displacing a single golden ringlet.

And of course, negotiating tricky situations such as the looming Revolt had been so much easier since her fateful trip to the Glenumbra Moors, and the artefact she had returned with…

When she thought back on reading the Infinium, the memories were like a paradise flower, each layer revealing a different colour and texture. To her every page seemed deeper and more enduring than the last, though when questioned, she could not have articulated exactly what they held. One might think the conscientious reader would endeavour to go back and reread each page carefully before progressing to the next, but the nature of the Infinium was such that this notion never crossed Morgiah's mind, even had she not been so entirely captivated by the book's spell. You kept turning pages until the end, and when you finished, the book disappeared without a trace. That was the way it worked. Reaching the back cover was like waking from a dream; closing the book was seeing the harsh morning light pouring through the window of your mind.

She had been right. Everything was different.

Her sight had sharpened. Not explicitly, but when she looked at something – or some_one_ – there was the quality of being able to look _through_ them, to the thoughts and desires that lay beyond. It was not so easy with people she had a particular attachment to; she suspected her own emotional involvement with such individuals obscured the clarity of her vision. Nevertheless, in the following years she would become increasingly familiar with looks of uneasiness and discomfort when she spoke to people in this manner. "Piercing" and "intuitive" were the more polite terms the Firsthold court applied; less flattering were the whispered descriptions of "unnatural", "witch-like," and on one memorable occasion "eyes of a damned snake".

She took it all in her stride. It had been worth it, for her newfound insight was incomparably valuable. The Gialene fiasco proved that, if nothing else; Morgiah had looked through her head and read her like a book. It had been so _easy._

She was standing by the window in the private chambers she shared with Reman, overlooking the ornamental gardens. This area of the palace had always been her favourite; the lawns and borders had been raised by some enterprising architect onto a series of glass walkways, spiralling around the residential wing of the castle until its highest feature, a sculpted crystal fountain, was more than a hundred feet from the ground. A stream of pure water flowed artfully from the tip into a pool in the central courtyard far below.

As she looked at the fountain glowing faintly in the violet dusk, she experienced the strangest sensation. It was as if the air had suddenly been drawn out of the world, leaving it a vacuum, quiet and expectant.

Her head jerked and her hand flailed for the window frame as Hermaeus Mora gripped hard. Flick flick flick – a dark room, candlelight, Reman at his desk, head drooping with tiredness – leaning to the side, sliding off his chair and falling to the floor – a servant running to his side, crying for help –

She came slowly back to herself. The window frame was digging into her hand.

She turned around. Reman was behind her, asleep in the four-poster bed. He looked uncharacteristically small. He had been sleeping more and more these days. Getting slower, wearier.

She turned back to the window, inevitability settling over her like a blanket of snow. She could not know for certain, of course, but the vision had left her with a quiet bleakness that made her think it would not be long now. A year. Maybe less.

And what would she do then?

Stay?

Not an enormously appealing thought. With Reman gone and her quest for the Tome fulfilled, her ties to Firsthold would be nonexistent. The citizens tolerated her as a trophy queen, but she would have a revolt on her hands – a real one this time – if she announced a desire to succeed the throne in her own name. No, they would put Reman's remaining eldest son in power, and she would be relegated to Dowager Queen. Dowager, at her age? The title made her think of Daggerfall's Mynisera, all thin lips and colourless hair and bitter memories. No, better anything than that.

Go, then? But where, and to whom?

Her options were limited. It was possible she could arrange herself another marriage – her status as Firsthold Queen would open more doors than merely Wayrest Princess. But she was tired of depending on others for her status and power; if she married again, it would be on _her_ terms. And she could be waiting a long time for that.

Wayrest was closed to her forever. Eadwyre was dead, her family long gone, and Elysana would rather show hospitality to a man-eating nixhound than Morgiah. Besides, she was too proud. No, Wayrest was not an option.

And Morrowind…?

She rolled the idea around in her mind experimentally, like a jeweller appraising a new specimen of gem. When she thought of joining her family there, a strange feeling possessed her – whether anxiety or excitement, she wasn't sure. Of course, it would be pleasurable to see Barenziah. Her mother visited once every year or so, but these journeys were far from hazardless and had become less frequent of late.

Then there was Helseth…

She had not seen him now for twelve years. This coincided exactly with her last trip to Wayrest; Helseth and Elysana had been at daggers drawn, and in her six-week stay she had seen her brother all but twice. They had grown into strangers. She'd left feeling as if someone had died, and in the following years even his infrequent letters had stopped. It was as if he had simply forgotten she existed.

If she went to Mournhold, what would it do to their relationship? Would it heal or kill it? She could only find out by going.

She padded softly towards the bed. The room was dim, but the remains of daylight reflected from the glass towers shed a soft illumination over the walls. As she sat on the coverlet, anyone watching might have observed that as she looked at her husband, her expression was very different to the impassive shrewdness the Firsthold court was so used to. She looked tender, and a little sad.

Morgiah drew the drapes and shut out the light.

* * *

**A/N:** And this, now, is pretty much the last we will see of Morgiah's previous life. We've gone all the way from Wayrest to the end of Firsthold, and now things in the present are going to be hotting up.


	37. Goldenflower And The Madness Of The King

**A/N: **Well... it's been a long time. I was worried about the length of this hiatus, worried that people would lose interest - but to be honest, this story has been going so long that the people who are going to lose interest would have done so years ago. The reason for my absence is that I moved house, left my job, got married and went on honeymoon. Which was like totally awesome by the way. BUT I DIGRESS.

So where do we stand? Morgiah's interludes are finished, and we have followed her from teenagerdom in Wayrest right up until her decision to leave Firsthold to rejoin her family in Morrowind, thirty years later. In the present timeline, her Highness plus her esteemed investigative recruits have investigated Helseth to the point that Nenya and Bomba 'Lurrina believe his Majesty is reconditioning the shattered golem in the centre of Red Mountain, in order to build his own empire. Dogged by mysterious assassins and hampered by the puzzling death of his spymaster in a terrible manor fire, Helseth nevertheless continues his plans. To create the Mantella, the artefact which will for the heart the golem, Helseth has utilised the mad god Vivec (using the decrepit mage Nulfaga's knowledge of Aetherius) to ambush and soultrap the King of Worms. He had hoped to achieve this in the utmost secrecy. Unfortunately Morgiah, though the connection she has to Hermaeus Mora which Helseth is totally unaware of, was forewarned and witnessed the attack. She knows, Helseth. She _knows._

As the golem nears completion, the forces close ranks, finalise strategies and draw their alliances_. _Helseth has begun hus journey to Red Mountain - via the city Vivec - to oversee the activation of the golem. The pieces are in place. There's a checkmate on the horizon._  
_

* * *

The King And I

Chapter Thirty-Five – Goldenflower And The Madness Of The King

* * *

Forvus Graccus dipped a quill in a fine silver inkwell, and reflected on the week.

It had been a most hectic few days. The provisions made for Ser Curio's new paramour (he supposed Goldenflower _was_ a paramour? It was all a little odd) had thrown the regular business out of a loop as guards and supplies were relocated to her new manor. The administration, of course, had fallen to Forvus. He was proud to say that everything had been achieved with impeccable efficiency. Ser Curio had been most appreciative – although, Forvus thought, his skin spontaneously flushing scarlet, the congratulatory pats on the backside had not _quite_ been necessary.

There was a commotion in the entrance hall. Forvus looked up, expecting to see the blonde ringlets and fussing retinue of Ser Curio's newest distraction – only for his eyes to fall on a very different sight indeed.

She was blonde, certainly. But the mysterious Goldenflower would probably rather die than let her hair get in such a windblown mess, and her taste in fashion did not generally run towards full plate armour and warhammers that were the approximate size of a small child.

"Hail!" said the blonde apparition cheerfully, pulling off her gauntlets and tossing them onto the desk, making a sad ruin of Forvus' meticulously scripted letter. "Windy today, isn't it? Crassius about?"

_The_ _Nerevarine. _Forvus almost fainted. "I'll. Um," he stuttered, trying surreptitiously to blot the leaking ink and succeeding only in spreading it over what little parts of the letter were yet unspoiled. "I'll fetch him, Sera. One – one moment, please…"

Before he could reach the door, however, it flew open to reveal Ser Curio himself, his arms open in an expansive gesture of welcome. "Nenya, Nenya, pearl of my Abecean Sea! Flower of my Colovia! Jewel of my Niben! O vision of Dibella herself, what miracles of karma could I possibly have navigated to deserve so bright and beautiful a presence? To what, my sweet pea, do I owe such unmitigated pleasure?"

"Hi," said Nenya, with exquisite unintentional irony. "How do?"

"Blessedly well, my dear, now that you have graced my halls. May I offer you some refreshment?"

"No, ta," Nenya said, attempting to flatten her hair and fighting a small battle with the legions of tangles that stood bravely against the tyranny of coiffure. "I'm not staying long. I've come to resign my Hlaalu position."

"Ah!" Crassius cried, clutching his breast as if wounded from some invisible arrow. "How came you to such an unhappy conclusion?" He tried shepherding her into the office, but gave up with the realisation that one hundred and fifty pounds of plate armour moves where it will. "Might I inquire why you choose to injure me so?"

"Oh come off it, you don't need me, I'm barely more than a mascot," Nenya scoffed. "Anyway, I'm not going to be in Morrowind much longer. I'm going back home."

"But surely your home is here, dumpling?"

"Do I look like an elf to you?"

"You are a vision of loveliness that traverses racial boundaries, my songbird."

"Okay," said Nenya, a 5'10 gangly pillar of dented Indoril with a hairstyle that looked like a small surprised haystack. "Well, I came to give my notice. I'm off to Skyrim before the month is out."

Crassius shook his head. "A sad day indeed. I will not hear of you being a stranger, do you understand? You must visit often, you malicious heartbreaker." He smirked. "I don't suppose you have told your little pet Sergeant? He will be devastated, you know."

Nenya bristled. "He's not a _pet." _She turned crimson in a rather good imitation of Forvus. "Actually, he's, um… coming with me."

Crassius' eyebrows shot into his hairline; he pressed his hand to his heart dramatically. "Most delicious forbidden fruit, tell me it is not so! Have you been plucked?" His mouth twisted into a smirk. "Do be sure to tell him I was there first, won't you? He simply loves hearing that."

He narrowly missed being bludgeoned by a rather heavy gauntlet. "Shut up, you lying old queen," Nenya said irritably. "If you're going to be annoying I shall leave."

Crassius held his hands up in a gesture of reconciliation. "I jest, pudding, I jest. Forgive a wretched man his fantasies." He waved towards the door of his office. "Come, don't leave me bereft. At least tell me of your travels."

She hesitated, then shrugged good-naturedly and followed him through the door. Crassius's 'office' was more like a lavish sitting room than any place of business – although of course, it depended on what exact _business_ to which you were referring. Nenya flopped into an armchair, a rather difficult feat in an inch-thick cuirass.

"Now," said Crassius, closing the door. "Where to begin? Did you enjoy your travels to the West? I have sadly never visited High Rock. I hear it is most pleasant."

"It's a bit wet," Nenya said, casually stereotyping an entire province. "Interesting people though. I bet you'd like Bomba 'Lurrina, she'd flirt with you properly."

Crassius sighed. "Long years have I toiled to coerce flirtation from you, Nenya; alas, you remain impenetrable as the walls of Berandas. Perhaps Miss 'Lurrina will be more forthcoming. And what of the others you met?"

Nenya twisted her mouth. "Well, I can't really go into too much detail because I don't know how much Morgiah wants to keep secret, and we all know you've got a mouth like an Ogrim."

"You are so poetic, my dear."

"Aye. Anyhow, I suppose there's no harm in telling you we went to Orsinium. Amazing place, you should see it. The castle is all built of metal, I've never seen anything like it. And Gortwog was a treat."

"The Orc King? I've heard a great deal about him. Quite the politician, they say." Crassius crossed his legs, his face pensive. "So I suppose your main business was in Wayrest? It's next door, after all, and I don't doubt the Princess wanted an update on her old home."

"Oh no," Nenya contradicted. "That wasn't on the list. And well glad I am, too; after what Bomba told me about Queen Elysana, a thousand miles isn't far enough away for me."

Crassius frowned. "What's wrong with her? By all accounts she's a charming woman."

"Yeah, well, that's the thing, isn't it? Everyone thinks butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, but she's a live one all right. She's got this _bitter _grudge against Helseth; I bet she'd do anything to see him dead, even though they're on separate sides of Tamriel." Nenya leant forward. "You know what Bomba 'Lurrina told me? She got some poor sap on the Wayrest Council to fall in love with her to get his vote of confidence – then, when he withdrew because Helseth was blackmailing him, Elysana blew her top and sent him a cursed cloak that _melted the flesh off his bones."_ Nenya made a face; the phrase had clearly made an impression on her. "Gruesome, eh? A fine pickle that'd be. All pretty gold ringlets and blue eyes and sweet smiles and then _bam,_ no flesh. Now _there's_ a lady not to get into bed with."

"For shame!" Crassius lamented. "And she sounds like such a pretty thing, too. I have a preference for blondes, I must admit–"

Suddenly he cut off, mid-sentence. His normally mischievous expression melted like a snowflake in summer; he looked as if he had swallowed a lemon. His eyes bulged.

"Um," said Nenya nervously, half-rising from her chair. "Do you… do you need a pat on the back or something? You've gone a bit… bulgy."

"Not necessary," Crassius gasped. "Beg pardon – indisposed – _Forvus!"_ he roared, stumbling round the desk and yanking a drawer open.

The secretary in question crashed through the door as if his backside had been set on fire. At the sight of his employer's expression, he slowed to a gibbering halt.

Crassius scribbled furiously onto a piece of parchment, holding a length of sealing wax over the candle with his free hand. "Get all my free guards to Goldenflower's safehouse _right away._ One on every door, every window – no one goes in or out, do you hear? And that _includes _Goldenflower." He stamped a seal onto the hastily folded letter. "Give this to my head guard for authorisation. Off with you, at once!"

Forvus grabbed the letter and ran, clearly glad to be out of the firing range. Crassius collapsed into an armchair and put a hand over his face.

Nenya sighed in exasperation, unmoved by the pandaemonium. "What the Dagon have you done _now?"_

"A small matter," Crassius said weakly, "I'll have it cleared up in a trice, truly…"

"You're a lying liar who lies. Who's Goldenflower, and why does she need a landslide of your personal guards? And what parent on Lorkhan's ashy earth would name their child _Goldenflower?"_

"A pseudonym… it only just clicked when you spoke of... Stendarr deliver me, how could I have been so _blind…"_

Nenya hefted her gigantic warhammer helpfully. "Crassius, I have sixty pounds of dwemer-wrought metal here, and it's getting introduced to your face in five seconds if you don't tell me what in Hoarfather's name you've been up to."

Crassius got to his feet, looking more decisive. "Put that monstrosity down, you irascible minx. You'd better come with me. I have a feeling you'll be needed."

"Come with – hang on, I'm _sure _we just had a conversation about me resigning. Or was that just wishful thinking?"

"I'll pay you a bonus. Come _on."_

"You know, this is exactly what Bomba warned me about," Nenya groused, retrieving her gauntlets from the reception desk and swinging her hammer back over her shoulder. "'You can't ever _resign,'_ she said. 'You can't resign from being public property.'Well I bloody well can and will. You're lucky I'm such a reasonable–" she cut off as Crassius grabbed her hand and practically dragged her towards the entrance hall. "Steady on! Where are we _going?"_

"We have a Royal appointment," Crassius said with an uncharacteristically nasty smile.

* * *

The Master Dreamer hadn't come. Helseth could hardly believe his eyes.

No-one had ever refused his summons before. The subordinate cultist who had come to Vivec in his stead was clearly uneasy with the situation; in fact, most people seemed to be uneasy in Helseth's presence these days.

"The Master is… indisposed, your Majesty."

"Indisposed? _Indisposed?_ This is the most important, critically delicate stage of the entire project, and he is _indisposed? _ What in blazes is wrong with him?"

The cultist twisted her mouth. "We are not sure, your Majesty. He seems to be exhibiting… negative effects."

Helseth's lip curled. _Fyr._ Thank the Divines he had waited for the elixir to be tested before drinking it himself; Akatosh knew what might have happened. He should have known that crackpot wizard wouldn't live up to his reputation; when would this all _end? _It was like he was fighting a tide. First Dren, then the assassins, now the Master… "Can we proceed without him?"

The cultist looked relieved to be able to deliver good news for once. "In theory, your Majesty, yes. In fact, everything is already in place. The Mantella is now complete, thanks to your ingenious plan. We only await your arrival at Red Mountain."

A thrill of excitement surged through Helseth. Ready, and before schedule! Perhaps, through all the incompetencies and mistakes and near-misses and years of planning, it was all within reach at last. To rekindle the Dunmer pride, to be an _Emperor…_

Suddenly absurdly jovial, he stood and opened the cupboard behind his desk. "Excellent! Most satisfactory. You and your kind will not be forgotten when this project is successfully completed, I promise you that." He poured two glasses of sujamma. "A toast? To revolution!"

The cultist's lips curved upward, clearly caught by the exuberance of Helseth's words. She accepted the glass, standing formally. "By all means. To revolution! And to you, your Majesty."

Looking back on it, it was sheer luck that she drank her glass first. Perhaps he was unconsciously on alert now, but at the first stiffening of her limbs he froze, his own glass millimetres from his lips.

When she sank to the floor, her face purpling, a mist drew down over his eyes. _Not again. Not again. NOT AGAIN._

This time he said nothing. He did not shout for help. He left her dying on the floor. He retreated to anteroom, turning the key behind him, continued through to the bedchamber, and dragged a wardrobe in front of the entrance with the unnatural strength that comes from utmost desperation.

Then he broke.

Dren dead, taking his carefully-prepared spy network with him. The Dreamer Master sinking into deformity and madness, the glorious prospect of Fyr's elixir snuffed out in an instant. The assassins – Arkay damn it, the _assassins_ – the Necromancer King was _dead!_ His soul was entombed in an inescapable prison! So _why _were they still coming after him?

A seed of doubt germinated in his inflamed mind; perhaps, after all, the monster had _not_ bewitched Morgiah to send the assassins…? But then _who?_ He was not only fighting an enemy he couldn't see, he was fighting an enemy who was _everywhere!_

He leant over the desk, clutching the edge so hard the wood cut into his palms. His head was swimming.

_Morgiah_.

He had no idea how much she knew, but every time he thought he was one step ahead, she appeared infuriatingly before him. He was _sure_ she knew about the King of Worms' disappearance, and that he was the culprit – but he didn't understand why or how. There was just no _time_ for her to have known – Vivec, the window from Aetherius – there was _no way!_ Yet she had somehow been warned, and had seen that which should have so crucially been hidden from her. He didn't understand. Morgiah had always been clever, but so was he. They were _equal._ What had happened to give her this edge? How did she seem to know when things were going to happen, or what people were thinking? What had changed, what had _happened_ to put her ahead of him?

"Dagon take it!" he screamed, hurling a glass against the wall. "I don't want this! _I don't want this!_"

He couldn't see anything except a haze of red, he could hear only the ringing in his ears, but he could feel his fingernails splitting and his skin bruising as he tore books from the shelves, upturned the desk, thrashed at the couch again and again until the fabric was shredded and spotted with his own blood…

When it was over, he curled up in the centre of the ruined room and sobbed.

* * *

In Vivec's Hlaalu Canton, the supplicant Goldenflower enjoyed the impenetrable safety of one of Crassius Curio's most secure manors.

She had not left the house for almost a week, but although the confinement was irksome, she was content to wait. She had done her part; now she just had to sit back and be patient.

She gazed into the mirror, adjusting the drape of her artfully-placed golden curls. It was so _dull _playing this waiting game, with only Crassius Curio's puppydog devotion to break the monotony – and really, he was becoming a frightful bore. Men always did after the first flush. It was vexing that she'd had to utilise him in the first place, but the tedium of his affection would be worth it once the next stage of her plan came to fruition.

She had known from the start that exploiting the rocky relationship between brother and sister was the key. Really, they had done most of the work _for_ her. She had always maintained that these Dunmer had nasty tempers; it had been a small matter to take advantage of it to create an impenetrable rift. The intentionally unsuccessful poison attempts had been the icing on the cake; oh how she longed, _longed_ to have seen the looks on their faces! When they had all but destroyed eachother, all she would have to do was mop up the pieces.

Her hand went to her ring, twisting it round and round on her slender finger.

She had often wondered how much of her political success could be attributed to this thing. She liked to think it was an enhancement, nothing more. She was certainly charming enough to reach these heights on her own; it was just… insurance. Her lip curled. The amount of times she'd watched those wretched siblings disappear into the treasury passage all those years ago at home; did they really think she hadn't noticed? She'd made her own explorations. For all their supposed intelligence, they hadn't found anything like _this._ Sweet but dim, wasn't that what they had called her?

Oh, she had waited so very _long_ for this.

There was quite a lot of stamping and shouting going on outside. She frowned, rising from her dressing table and sweeping into the hall. She could see shadowy silhouettes gathering outside her window.

One of her guards was standing by the front door as usual; Crassius had really laid it on thick for her. She threw the man a dazzling smile and reached out for the door-handle.

The guard stepped in front of her.

She stopped, nonplussed. "Is something wrong?"

"Ser Curio's orders, ma'am," the guard said apologetically. "No-one's to enter or leave, not even you. Security breach or something."

She laughed, a tinkling sound like falling silver. "Don't be absurd. I want to see outside." She made to brush past him, but to her astonishment, his hand closed around her wrist.

"Sorry, ma'am," the guard said stoically. "Nothing I can do."

She shook him off, an unexpectedly ugly look clouding her features. It was only visible for a second, but the guard stepped back in alarm at the change. Goldenflower immediately became contrite.

"Of course. Ser Curio is only concerned for my safety, I am sure." What imaginary threat had the old fool dreamt up now_?_ It was most disconcerting to know that she was trapped in this place. "I would be grateful to know the reason for my confinement, though," she demurred. "Perhaps you will be good enough to carry a request for Ser Curio to come and visit me?"

"He's coming now, ma'am, by all reports," the guard reported, clearly glad that her black mood had not lasted. "Be here in no time at all – in fact," he continued, peering out of the window, "I think he's just arrived."

It was indeed him, and to her surprise and annoyance, he was not alone. Some towering lank of a Nord accompanied him, most unflatteringly sporting heavy armour and a tangle of yellow hair that was about as similar to Goldenflower's honeyed locks as a donkey is to a thoroughbred.

"Ah, my lady," Crassius greeted jovially as the door opened. She did not like the unctuous tone of his voice. He gestured to the Nord woman. "I do not believe you have had the pleasure of meeting my companion?"

There was _definitely _something odd going on here. The presence of the Nord unnerved her; there was something in her plain face that made Goldenflower think it would be very, very hard to work her. She had never liked the company of women; they tended to be less receptive to her charms.

Nevertheless, she rose to the occasion grandly, holding her hand out and arranging her features into a winning smile. "Enchanted, to be sure." The Nord woman's grip was like a man's, firm and unyielding.

"My dear," Crassius smiled at her, "this is Nenya, the Nerevarine."

She barely had time to process this startling revelation before he continued:

"Nenya, I am delighted for you to meet Elysana, Queen of Wayrest."

Elysana froze like a statue of ice.

"Seize her," Crassius said softly.

* * *

On the steps of the Hall of Wisdom and Justice, they brought the exile queen to kneel before the Dunmer king.

"I thought we were taking her to Morgiah!" Nenya hissed out of the side of her mouth as Elysana, née Goldenflower, was forced up the stairway. "Do you have any _idea_ how much trouble this is going to cause?"

"One has to cover one's bases, dear. After all, Helseth may yet win out, and if he does, I would rather stay in his good graces. In any case, it'll make for a rather juicy show, won't it?"

Nenya looked like she was about to hit him. "I hope Morgiah flays you alive," she fumed. "Bloody _politicians._ I hope they all choke, starting with you. Thank Stendarr I'm resigning."

"Parting is such sweet sorrow," Crassius replied absently. He was not really listening to her; he was watching the proceedings with a calculating eye. A gaggle of curious citizens were already stopping in the plaza below to watch.

Crassius' guards were trying unsuccessfully to make Elysana kneel; none of them seemed to want to hurt her. Finally an Ordinator stepped forward and thwacked her behind the knees. She collapsed with a yelp of outrage, glaring at him murderously.

When Helseth emerged into the evening sunlight, the now-substantial crowd suddenly quietened. Even the least intuitive among them could sense that the air between the King and this woman had condensed to a thick, boiling miasma of hatred.

Helseth drew his hand up, and brought it across Elysana's face with a backhand _crack_ that split through the plaza like thunder.

The entire crowd saw her stagger. For a moment, she gasped on the stones. Then she brought her stunningly blue eyes to meet his burning red ones, and if looks could kill, they would both have withered to dust.

Helseth's face was twitching with passion. "I will see you dead for this. I will see you _suffer._ You think queenship of a pitiful Iliac Bay city-state will grant you immunity next to the sovereignty of Morrowind? Did you think, perhaps, that with your cringingly ineffectual assassins you might _replace_ me? These people will spit on your corpse before they see a Breton rule Old Resdaynia. I gave you Wayrest. You should have been grateful I didn't open your throat back then."

An ugly red welt was rising on her cheek, but she played it with a pious expression, holding her head so the crowd could see the damage. "Your Majesty knows I am innocent of any crime he might choose to lay against me," she rang out clearly. "I came to visit a once-beloved step-brother, no more. And if I am not mistaken," she said more softly, "Wayrest was mine long before I ran you off my land like a mongrel with its tail between its legs. It was mine before you were even born. Do you think I have no friends, brother dear? Think very carefully before you seek to harm me. Many of my allies still remember you, you know. How could they forget? Such a sour, incompetent travesty of a prince was a regular source of amusement to us all."

Helseth went for her.

He seized the mass of golden hair before she could move and was yanking, tearing at it from the roots; Elysana shrieked in distress, but her own hand was sneaking up towards his eyes, fingernails bared like talons… Helseth was screaming that he wasn't her brother… the crowd was howling with disbelief, delight, scandal, fear…

And Nenya was there like a shot. In a second she had them apart, Helseth wide-eyed and panting, Elysana sobbing piteous ladylike tears. The Nord stood between them like a wall of Indoril.

"_How dare you!"_ Helseth spat at her, incandescent with rage. "How _dare _youlay hands on me? Nerevarine or not, I'll have your head, you filthy–"

Nenya was white. The crowd shrieked incredulously; Nord she may be, but the Nerevarine had destroyed the Blight Disease and delivered them from their most feared enemy. Helseth was King, but a new one, and an outlander at that. There was no question whom they would stand behind if push came to shove. In one moment, Helseth had snuffed out forever the love of the people he had so desperately hoped to win.

"Get him away from here," Nenya hissed at the Ordinators, who bundled Helseth through the doors at once. She indicated Elysana, who was still weeping prettily. "And take her to the cells – _no torture,_ or you'll find your faces on end of my hammer."

She turned to Crassius, and for a moment she was truly terrifying, all the casual warmth of her personality replaced by the age-old, iron-cold fury of Nerevar. "I hope you're satisfied," she spat, towering over his shocked and frozen form. "_You_ can handle the mob. Because it _is_ a mob now. Enjoy yourself."

She disappeared after the Ordinators. Crassius Curio turned slowly to face the plaza, and the crowd bayed like starving wolves.

* * *

In the empty rented apartment in Almalexia, Eadwyrd Greenhart sat by the dying fire. It was the only illumination in the room.

His cloud-grey eyes were flat and blank as they stared into the grate. Twistedly, excruciatingly, he could think of nothing but Gwynabyth – her warmth, her kindness, her goodness… such a contrast to his own coldness now; such terrible irony.

Slowly he stood, and began to pack things into his satchel-bag with mechanical movements. It was still half-full of the supplies Morgiah had given them for their trip to Tel Fyr; he didn't bother to empty them out, merely crushing the rest of his belongings on top.

There was one thing left to do. The danger and absurdity of the scheme were of no consequence to him – what was the point? His life meant nothing now. The idea flared in his head like a brand, the only thing that held meaning any more.

He could use the Mages Guild transport again, but this time come out near the now-defunct Ghostgate. From there, he would go on foot.

And after that – well, it would not matter. This was the last task.

* * *

**A/N: **I'd like to welcome** broersje **to the fold - I'm sorry I could say so sooner! I'm extremely pleased you're looking forward to the finale. Hopefully it'll be as explosive as I can make it. I'd also like to thank **Clodia **for your continuing support, and the kindness to nominate me in a very exciting LotR fanfic competition this year. I can't tell you what it means to me :) xxxx


	38. The Last Task Of Eadwyrd Greenhart

**A/N:** Thanks for the comments on the last chapter **Clodia**,** broersje **and** burntsierra**! You really are the tonic that keeps my flagging typist's fingers alive. You are all AWESOME! I'm glad you all enjoyed the humour - I'm afraid it's the last bit, as now we face an explosion of rather huge proportions. Daggerfall enthusiasts will also recognise an old face in this chapter; keep your eyes peeled.

So saying... three, two one... ZERO.

* * *

The King And I

Chapter Thirty-Six – The Last Task Of Eadwyrd Greenhart

* * *

The door to Morgiah and Barenziah's parlour banged open, causing the three occupants to leap up in alarm, Bomba 'Lurrina's hand going to her katana. She checked it, however, when the lamplight revealed the intruder to be Nenya. Caius was not far behind.

"The oil's really on the fire now," the Nord said grimly, throwing herself into a chair without waiting to be asked. "Helseth has a mob on his hands. I'm going to _kill_ that jumped-up conniving snake Crassius."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, a flicker of smug satisfaction crossed Caius's face at Nenya's verbal evisceration of his nemesis.

Barenziah looked thunderstruck. "A _mob?_ How? What do you mean? What in the gods' name has happened?"

"Elysana," Nenya announced. "Queen Elysana of Wayrest has been in Morrowind for a whole month, sitting in Crassius Curio's plushed-out mansion sending Morag Tong assassins after your family."

For a moment, neither Barenziah nor Morgiah spoke. Then the Princess' hands began very slowly to clench and unclench.

"Crassius Curio, you say?" Her voice was deadly calm.

"He didn't know," Nenya said reluctantly, weighing honesty against personal grievance and coming out on the side of the former, as usual. "He didn't have a clue who she was; she set herself up as some impoverished noble. The _real_ problem was that he took her to the King instead of bringing her here. I don't know how he knew Helseth was in Vivec – he must have only just arrived – but he and Elysana had a brawl on the Justice steps and practically the whole city turned out to watch."

Barenziah sank into a chair, apparently too appalled to speak. Morgiah took a breath, tense as a bowstring.

"Elysana has been detained?" she questioned, still with that awful composure that spoke less of peaceable acceptance and more of methodical torture-plans.

"I told the Ordinators to find her a cell in the Ministry of Truth." Nenya narrowed her eyes at the Princess; was there something _different_ about her? "With _no_ torture. She can await trial; we need to sort Helseth out first."

"What is he doing in Vivec?" Barenziah whispered, regaining her voice at last. "He said nothing to me about any journey."

Bomba 'Lurrina spoke up from the corner. "I would suppose he is heading towards Red Mountain, your Highness."

Nenya looked the two Dunmer women in the eye, one after the other. "I know you didn't want to believe it before, and I don't blame you. But there is _no time _for denial now. If he's going all the way up there, my guess is that things are coming to a head. Whatever the black-robes are doing for him, they've finished."

Morgiah breathed in, very slowly. Her mind was a mess of whirling thoughts – plans, strategies, outcomes, all formed and dismissed in a moment. To quiet the storm more than anything, she reached for the notes she and Barenziah had been reviewing before the interruption.

"We may have found another connection," she said, the proclamation sounding absurdly minor in the light of what had just been announced. "We have been re-evaluating the findings from yours and Ser Curio's investigations, Sergeant Cosades, and from Bomba 'Lurrina's report of Orsinium. We have found a rather strange connection. A young Imperial by the name of Tulius Cicero appears in both accounts; first as a scholar on Dwemer architecture that King Gortwog recommended to Helseth's envoy, and second as a missing person in Ser Curio's list of recent abnormalities and disappearances. Can either of you shed some light on this coincidence?"

Nenya threw up her hands in exasperation. "What does it matter? There's no _time_ for this–"

But Caius' suddenly clapped a hand to his mouth, his eyes flying wide. _"Tulius Cicero,"_ he hissed. "I _knew_ I recognised the name! How could I have been so _stupid…_ he's a Blade! An acolyte. He worked in High Rock, but he was relocated to Morrowind last Frostfall. I would never have known if I hadn't signed his transfer when I was on secretary relief in the Imperial City barracks." His hand formed a fist. "A _Blade…"_

With a sickening lurch, Morgiah realised she recognised the name as well. No wonder it jumped out at her; it had been a newspaper headline in her study not two months ago. The Common Tongue. It had been right in front of her, and she'd not had the wit to see it. "He must have known something Helseth wanted. High Rock… he must have had information about Numidium."

"Poor bastard," Caius whispered, face grey. "Talos knows what Helseth did to make him talk."

Nenya stood up. "I'm going," she announced abruptly, swinging her hammer onto her shoulder.

Morgiah surfaced from her reverie, blindsided. "Excuse me? _Now?_ You've only just arrived!"

"To Red Mountain," Nenya said, her face uncharacteristically serious. "I might be able to get rid of enough black-robes to delay Akulakhan's reactivation. Worth a try, anyway." Her eyes flickered uncertainly to Caius, but he was already on his feet by her side. It seemed there was no question of their being separated.

Morgiah let them go. What did it matter? There was a small possibility they could do some good, even if it was only damage control. "Go well," she said, the words sounding as meaningless as they were. If Helseth had got this far, no amount of Dreamer's heads would make much difference.

They left, Nenya narrowly avoiding a catastrophe as a tray-laden chambermaid appeared in the doorway.

"Tea, ma'am," said the maid imperiously, transferring a cake-stand to the sideboard and arranging the cups.

"I cancelled all service today," Barenziah said curtly. "Please see that the message is conveyed to the kitchens and kindly do not disturb us further."

The maid turned back to the door – but Bomba 'Lurrina had suddenly vacated her inconspicuous chair in the corner, and quick as lightning, grasped the wrist of the chambermaid.

"By the Moons," she whispered, her voice becoming feral. "Well I never. It has been many years since I have seen _you_, my lady."

Barenziah stood, the confusion on her face turning to furious suspicion in the blink of an eye. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, her soft tone more threatening than any voice raised in anger.

There was a pause, a moment of uncertain power-struggle as the personalities in the room clashed, before the chambermaid broke the silence.

"Forgive me," she replied coolly, crossing the room and laying a ring down on the table, "but the deception was necessary. The Empire is not as ignorant of this matter as you would perhaps like to think."

Morgiah's sharp eyes took in the seal on the ring's flat surface; the Imperial insignia. "You have one minute to explain who you are," she said in the same quiet tone as her mother, "before you ensure that these four walls are the last you see. _Your name,_ madam."

"My name is Lady Brisienna Magnessen. I am a loyal servant of the Empire, and the Hlaalu Crown's doings have not gone unnoticed by my Lord's agents in the province."

"Bomba?" Morgiah asked, her eyes not leaving the Imperial's face.

"She's a spy," Bomba 'Lurrina confirmed. "In my time as agent to the Emperor, she acted as my contact." The Khajiit cocked her head, regarding the lady with a peculiar expression of smugness. "Unlucky for you I was here, no? The only person in all Morrowind who could have blown your cover! What are the chances?"

"Indeed, you have ever delivered undesirable results," Brisienna rejoined, her voice like a barb of ice. "The Empire holds no love for oathbreakers and traitors."

Bomba 'Lurrina laughed. "My lady, you were always so quick to demonise. The reason I have eluded 'justice' all these years is because the Emperor _knows_ my decision was undisputable. Numidium's Mantella belonged to no-one but the Underking. But don't take my word for it; why not ask him yourself? There are so many ways to get to Oblivion these days."

Brisienna's eyes flashed with anger at the casual threat.

"Enough," pronounced Barenziah, her authoritative tone cutting through the atmosphere like a knife. "I see there is much history here that would be best left undisturbed. Lady Magnessen, do sit." It was not a request.

The four women settled on the edge of their chairs like vipers ready to strike.

"Now," Barenziah said, at least attempting to appear civil, "Let us hear from you, Lady Magnessen. What is the Emperor's stance on this matter, and what exactly do you hope to achieve by your actions here?"

"I am in no position to discuss the Empire's designs," Brisienna replied evenly. "Let it be clear that we have learned enough here to piece together what King Helseth is doing, and it is high treason. There can be no mistake in this. Your own roles in this fiasco are as of yet indeterminate. Provide us immediately with the King's full plans and whereabouts, and you will be pardoned with minimal interruption to your sovereignty. An Imperial co-ordinator will be dispatched to supervise the transfer of the crown, and to oversee the initial stages of the new reign."

The words closed over Morgiah like a blanket of ice. With Imperial involvement, reality hit like never before. This wasn't just a kin squabble to be resolved among themselves; it was Empire-wide now, and it would result in the sundering of this family forever. High treason meant execution, no exceptions.

As the sudden emotions raged in her, she heard Barenziah's calm voice as if through deep water. "I am afraid these terms are not acceptable, my lady. We know nothing of his Majesty's whereabouts, and have only scant information of what he may or may not be doing." In any other mouth, this blatant lie would have lit up like a beacon, but Barenziah's cool surety gave it precisely the weight it needed. "Furthermore, no 'co-ordinator' will be necessary. Morrowind has ever managed its own affairs, in accordance with our long-established Imperial agreement."

"You must have _some_ idea where he is," Brisienna snapped, losing patience. "I have seen enough in my time here to know that you have been conducting your own investigations into his activities. The King is suspected of numerous crimes against the Empire. We already have proof that he is involved in the disappearance of a Blade associate, and circumstantial evidence of much more. I have so far gone to great lengths to exempt you from Helseth's sentence; do not force me to rescind such generosity."

"Your efforts are noted and appreciated," replied Barenziah mildly. "But I am afraid we cannot help you. Whatever you believe his Majesty may be doing, I am sure such hysterical accusations as _treason_ are premature." She stood, passing over the fuming Brisienna and holding the door open politely. "We will of course inform you of any developments to this case. Do not hesitate to contact us if you require further assistance."

Brisienna rose, gathering her skirts. Her glare was a frozen lance. "Your lack of cooperation has been noted. I tell you this: Helseth _will_ be found, and quickly. The Empire is not finished with this debacle." She swept from the room, the door banging behind her.

Barenziah and Morgiah looked at each other, the expression on each blood-drained face reflecting the other.

"This has escalated far beyond anything I had imagined," Bomba 'Lurrina said softly, startling them with her sepulchral tone. They had forgotten she was there. "I do not think you can protect Helseth from the Empire, your Highnesses."

"Of course we cannot, the stupid boy," Barenziah expostulated, showing her anxiety at last. "How could he endanger himself this way? The _family?_ Is Morrowind not enough for him? He's coveting the whole of _Tamriel,_ for Azura's sake! Has he lost his mind?"

"Yes," Morgiah said.

Barenziah looked at her, passing a hand over her face, suddenly haggard. "This is it, you know. That damned woman won't wait, no matter how we try to stall her. They'll be releasing the hounds any day now. Morgiah, I ask this as your mother – _find him."_

A wrench, tugging at her heart. "And do what? Magic a pardon for high treason out of thin air?"

"I don't know," Barenziah whispered. "Just find him before they do. _Please."_

Morgiah closed her eyes, the plea in Barenziah's voice making her blood run cold. They'd built themselves like a house of cards, this family, adding layer upon treacherous flimsy layer… and now Helseth had tried to snatch an ace from the bottom row, and suddenly everything was crashing down around them. Images flashed through her mind; she and Helseth playing Halma-board in the dim light of the nursery candle, she and Helseth sharing midnight feasts, she and Helseth breaking into the Wayrest Treasury and playing marbles with the precious gems, she and Helseth when life was simple, and they had not become strangers…

It seemed aeons away, a distant past. She opened her eyes.

"Tell the groom to ready my carriage."

* * *

The Dreamer Master gripped the rail of the observation platform, the unnatural strength of his fingers crushing the copper tubing. _It's a fever,_ he assured himself. _Such as anyone could have. It means nothing. There is nothing wrong._

Another crippling pain shot through his stomach, sending him to his knees.

Struggling upright, he looked wildly around – he could not allow his subordinates to learn of his predicament_._ Fortunately, he was high on the walkway, near the tarnished gleam of the great Head. The cultists seldom came up here; the only people you would find at these dizzy heights were the Patients, and it mattered little what _they_ did or did not see.

From his vantage point, he could see the unobtrusive bronze-bound door in the rockface hundreds of feet below, and to his satisfaction there was a robed figure standing quietly nearby. It was essential that this door was guarded at all times; the old woman, especially, had become difficult and troublesome of late, and the Dwemer and Triune were no less unstable than she. With the project so close to completion, everything must be perfect for his Majesty's arrival.

The air around the Master seemed to shimmer; he gasped, his breath catching in his throat. Damn this place; the exposed magma chamber made the Facility Cavern a furnace. _Air. I must have air._

Turning, he began to stumble down the ramp to the tunnelled air-duct that would lead, small and winding, to the exposed mountainside.

* * *

The guard by the bronze-bound door on the lower level of the Facility Cavern lifted his head. The face underneath the hood was not the ash-dark of a Dunmer, but pale and drawn.

Eadwyrd pulled the cloth lower over his face, and moved into the shadow of the wall.

It had not been difficult to get this far. The Master Dreamer's concerns were elsewhere; the mer was clearly in the advanced stages of full-blown Corprus. Even Eadwyrd's toil across Red Mountain to Dagoth Ur had gone by in a haze, the harshness of the landscape bearing no comparison to the nightmare in his mind.

The ceiling of the cavern stretched away above him, disappearing into darkness. The gigantic figure that filled it gleamed from the ministrations of a hundred Corprus victims, scurrying across its vast surface like beetles. Even in Eadwyrd's tortured mind, a seed of horror burst into life at the sight. He had imagined what Helseth must be doing, but _this…_ this was beyond anything.

Suddenly afraid for the first time in the whole journey, he stumbled backwards into the shadowy alcove and fumbled for the handle of the door there. It swung open…

Into total and utter darkness.

He blinked. It was not just shadow, it was like a window had been cut out of the air. Now he looked more closely, he could see pinpricks of light, like stars. Had he inadvertently opened a door that lead onto the slope of the Mountain? But no – there was no rockface, no clouds, no moons. Just the stars, and… a golden figure?

There was someone out there.

Eadwyrd stepped through the concealed entrance to the Aetheric prison, and began to run.

* * *

In the crater of Red Mountain, the ancient Dwemer ruins of Dagoth Ur lay scattered like broken and discarded toys. The volcano's many eruptions had caused the majority of the structure to sink into the basalt, creating the curious effect of a city submerged in a charcoal sea. One might think, due to the dread threat of Corprus and Blight that has dogged this region for so long, that any potential visitors would move with stealth and caution.

Nenya clumped through the ruins as if she was taking a stroll down Balmora's high street. Trailing a short distance behind her, looking far less comfortable in his surroundings, was Caius.

"Almost like home, really," commented Nenya, in a rather casual display of black humour.

"Cosy," said Caius dryly. "How long since you were last here?"

"More than a year now." Nenya loosened her hammer in its bindings as they neared the main complex. "Looks pretty deserted, but for all we know, these Dreamers are just as dangerous as any Blight monster. Stay close and look sharp."

Caius was happy to oblige; his own shortsword had been at the ready ever since they passed the now-defunct Ghostgate. Together, they crept towards the spherical gateway that obscured the entrance to the interior ruins. At the end of the path, however, they were thwarted – the metalwork was distorted by the heat of the most recent lava-flow, and the seam of the doors had been fused shut.

Caius scowled. "Now what? There's no way we can pry this thing open with just the two of us."

Nenya was looking at the portal shrewdly. "Got any magic, Cai?" she said suddenly.

Caius furrowed his brow. "You know I don't – nothing worth speaking of, anyway. Why?"

Nenya examined the doors carefully. "I wish Bomba was here," she said in frustration after her search proved fruitless. "I'd bet a whole suit of Ebony we'd find the same magical residue on this door that we did in Shedungent, but neither of us have the skill to detect it."

"Is there another way in?"

Nenya thought for a moment. "There used to be vents in the Facility Cavern –air-ducts, although they were really small tunnels through to the mountainside. If you're up for a bit of scrambling, we can have a look."

Caius sheathed his shortsword with a sigh. "More scrambling? Just what I fancied."

Nenya started to smirk before an ominous rumbling met their ears – a distant roaring, coming as if from the mountain itself. Something was happening inside.

Sharing a disquieted glance, they began to climb with a greater sense of urgency, two black ants on the vast surface of volcanic rock.

* * *

Three people stood lined up in the Aetherius star-room, like something out of a diseased dream.

The first had eyes that mirrored Eadwyrd's in their cold flatness, although the face they stared from was unrecognisable. Yagrum Bagarn had abandoned hope a long time ago, and all that was left now was the loathing of what he had unwillingly helped create.

The second was little more than a pathetic heap of dirty sacking and matted hair. Nulfaga was barely aware of her own surroundings any more, her decrepitude a canker that ate into the very core of her soul.

The third was golden. Golden and mad.

Nothing could shock Eadwyrd any more. The fact that he was standing before a god had no effect on him; all he wanted now was for this abomination to be stopped before the whole world was thrown into chaos. He was here. This was it. He had got this far. It was up to him now.

Vivec smiled pleasantly at him. He held an object in each hand; one a short length of iridescent metal wreathed with complicated symbols, the other what looked like an impossibly large soul-gem, flushed a deep, disturbing red. "Ah, my subject. Have you come to escort me to where I can watch our foe's demise?"

"I- what?" Eadwyrd gaped, barely able to get the words out. Had Vivec really fallen so far that he thought this conquest of slaughter was acceptable? Is this how Helseth had managed to accomplish what he had?

Vivec's eyes shone with compassion, with love. "My people can rest easy. Their god will ensure their safety as he has always done. The enemy that threatens our land will be cast out by the grace of my wisdom and might. Is it not so, dear one?"

Eadwyrd could have cried, had the events of the last week not left him dry. Vivec had sunk so deep into lunacy that all Helseth had to do was tell one simple lie, and the rest followed like the sun after rain. The ease with which this atrocity had been achieved was crushing.

"It's a lie," he said simply. "Helseth has lied to you. He's using you to rebuild the golem that _you_ helped destroy, hundreds of years ago – the one you fought against to prevent exactly what will happen now if you don't _do_ something."

Vivec was shaking his head, still smiling. "Dear one, you are tired and confused; I can see you are wounded from some great harm to your spirit. There is no golem. I have created talismans to keep my people safe." He proffered the objects in his hands, the things Eadwyrd now recognised as a Totem and Mantella.

"Those 'talismans' are just what Helseth needs to control the thing out there! You have to stop this," Eadwyrd pleaded, hopelessness seeping through him. How had he ever thought he could succeed? If Vivec was useless, everything was lost. He couldn't stand against a half-mile high golem on his own.

"There is nothing to stop," Vivec said peevishly. "You tire me, young one. I am weary. Leave me now." He turned his back.

Eadwyrd grabbed his arm, some part of his frozen brain registering with shock how frail, how _mortal _the god felt. He dragged him towards the improbable square of rock that floated in the midst of the chamber – the open door to the Cavern – internal voices shrieking all the while at the danger, the looming disaster.

Vivec began to struggle and wail, the sound appallingly childlike and distressed. Edward found that his tears were not gone, against all odds. His face was running with them.

"_Look at what is happening out there!"_ he screamed, thrusting the god's face through the doorway to stare out at the monstrous figure illuminated by the grisly light of volcanic flame. "People are going to die! This thing will sweep across the land, and no-one will be able to stop it! People are going to _die!"_

At the other end of the Aetherius-room, a terrible moan rent the air. Nulfaga was stirring. To Eadwyrd's dismay, she began to beat herself, scratching at her frail body until her arms were running with blood.

"They have not come!" she howled, her face a grotesquerie of pain and betrayal. "They listened to my stories, they fed and clothed me, and then they left me to die like all the others! My Lysandus, where are you to ease your mother's burdens? My Lysandus – my poor Lysandus!"

She was on her feet, running with frightening speed towards them – Eadwyrd stumbled to the side, pulling Vivec with him. As her ravaged form sped past them out of the doorway, he tripped in his haste to get out of the way; the satchelbag flew from his shoulder, spilling its contents to the floor. His poetry manuscripts caught the updraft, bursting into flames, flying through the volcanic fires like burning birds.

Vivec's face was drenched in horror, but he was not looking at the broken wreck of a woman who now stood at the brink of the magma chamber. He was looking up, at Akulakhan, his mouth moving soundlessly open and closed.

For one moment, Eadwyrd thought his eyes cleared, and the mantle of madness lifted.

"No," whispered the god. "Aedra forgive me…what have I _done?"_

An impossible hope flared in Eadwyrd, and then three things happened at once.

Nulfaga gave a horrific scream of anguish, and hurled herself into the pit of lava beneath Akulakhan's massive feet.

Vivec raised the Totem, and swept his fingers across the writhing symbols of its surface.

The Mantella fell from his right hand, landing on one of the pieces of parchment that had fallen from Eadwyrd's satchel – not, as it happened, a poetry manuscript, but one of the leftover Recall scrolls given to him by Morgiah before she sent him to Tel Fyr. It touched the surface and vanished.

Then everything was chaos.

The door behind him was screeching on its hinges – the star-room was bending, crumpling, folding like tin. With Nulfaga burning in the heart of the Mountain, the connection to Aetherius was severed. With a sickening jolt Eadwyrd realised that the third prisoner, the deformed Dwemer, was still inside.

"Get out!" He screamed at the dwindling figure, not daring to venture through the doorway. "You'll be trapped; it's collapsing! _Hurry!"_

With awful slowness, the Dwemer raised his head. There was some trace of humanity in his dead eyes at last; a spark of relief, of finality. He turned his head to the diminishing ceiling and raised his arms in welcome.

The stars clashed together with a flash of piercing white, and the doorway vanished as if it had never been, leaving Eadwyrd on his knees outside, struck dumb in the face of the pandaemonium before him.

Akulakhan was attacking itself.

Vivec was clawing his way up the spiral ramp that circled the cavern, the Totem clutched in his wasted hand. Without the Mantella, the golem was merely a huge doll, with none of the intelligence or drive the soulgem would have instilled. As Vivec's fingers flashed across the surface of the Totem, Akulakhan responded with clumsy limitation – it flailed at its own body, huge hands tugging at the welded fittings, a kneecap hanging loose, both thumbs crushed beyond repair, the great Head dented and tarnished. Screaming Corprus workers fell dislodged from its heights like gruesome rain.

Black-robed Dreamers were pouring from the myriad doorways in the walls, crying out in fear and alarm as the golem's increasingly violent movements damaged the walls and ceiling of the cavern. The magma chamber, disturbed by the seismic activity around it, began to rumble like a disquieted beast.

Eadwyrd stood quietly, a small form of stillness amid the chaos, his head turned up to the sky. Rocks fell everywhere; showers of basalt rained on and around him, and the glow from the steadily-rising magma fell hot and dry across his face. For a moment he thought he saw a blonde woman screaming at him from a balcony above, but then she was gone and so was he, insensible to the collapsing world around him, locked in a place within his own mind.

"It's done, Gwyn," he whispered hoarsely. "Did I do well? I did it for you – I did it for you, Gwyn –"

The rain of rocks became a torrent; he fell to the ground, head bloody and gashed. Faintly, as if through distorted glass, he saw the entire right side of the golem fall into the expanding pool of lava with a roar of sparks, before the world darkened.

When the explosion of magma claimed him along with the rest of the Facility Cavern, he had long since stepped over the threshold to Oblivion.


	39. Gone

**A/N:** Those who are familliar with Daggerfall will have recognised Lady Brisienna, the chambermaid-who-wasn't from the last chapter. She is the first main quest contact the PC meets when they drag themselves out of Privateer's Hold. If you were savvy with rumours, you'd also have found out that she was sister to the Great Knight, the leader of the Blades at that time (I personally believe all the evidence points to said Great Knight being Jauffre, which would create a nice link between games II and IV, but that's a debate for another day). She's a fascinating character in her own right, and if I ever start another Elder Scrolls epic (god forbid), it will probably be about her exploits as a spy in the Popudax witches under Emperor's orders.

And also, I hope the motive for Gwynabyth's cruel death is now clear. Without it, Eadwyrd would never have conceived such an insane notion as going up against Akulakhan alone, and lord knows how much canon this story would have butchered if Helseth had been allowed to rampage over Tamriel with a dwemer golem in tow. That said, this chapter reveals the biggest reason why King And I must always now remain an Alternate Reality fic. Well, one can't predict everything correctly, can one?

* * *

The King And I

Chapter Thirty-Seven - Gone

* * *

Inside the dark red artery of the Facility Cavern air-vent, Caius and Nenya ran for their lives.

They had only just reached the end of the tunnel, horror-struck by the vista of chaos that confronted them, when the walls began to shake. The rockfall had started soon after, sending them haring back towards the point of light that signposted their only exit to the mountainside. Caius was panting heavily; a shard of basalt had clipped his temple, and his leg had still not fully healed after the Dren Manor fire. Just when it seemed he could not push himself any further, they shot out into the smoky air of the volcanic slope.

Nenya was beside herself.

"That was _Eadwyrd!"_ she cried, her breath laboured from both the frantic sprint and the shock of what they had glimpsed in the cavern. "I swear it, Caius, he was at the foot of the golem! We have to go back for him!"

"Are you insane?" Caius said angrily. "This entire damn place is going to erupt!"

Nenya wasn't listening; she was already scrambling over the rocks. "There are other vents – if we can reach one before the magma level rises –"

"_Nenya!"_ Caius grabbed her arm, yanking her back onto level ground. "Look at me! Even if Eadwyrd _was_ down there, there's nothing you can do, you hear me? There's no way back inside from here, and even if there was, the lava's risen too high. He'll be dead, Nenya."

His heart gave an awful lurch as he saw the tears in her eyes.

"Even _you_ can't stop a volcano," he said softly.

"I wish I'd never involved them in this," Nenya said thickly, rubbing her nose with the back of her gauntlet. "It's my fault. They were happy, they were making their tonic together, and now…"

She turned her head to hide her wet cheeks. Caius pretended not to see, because he knew she didn't want him to.

"Look," he said gently. "If it really _was_ Eadwyrd, there's only one reason he would be here. He must have done something to sabotage the golem, and if that's true, he's saved an awful lot of lives. Right? Maybe even as many as you have. That's worth dying for."

For a moment, they stood looking at each other, the only two figures in the desolate landscape. Heat was gathering threateningly at the top of the mountain.

"You're right," Nenya said softly, smudging a hand across her tearstained face. "I suppose... I suppose we could come back to find him, when the land's settled."

He nodded to please her, though they both knew there was no chance in Oblivion of finding Eadwyrd's body under half a mile of molten rock.

Nenya drew a deep breath and turned to hurry down the slope. She looked back to see if Caius was following, but as she did her eyes suddenly widened, fixing on a point over his shoulder – her mouth began to form his name –

– and then her fist shot out, hitting him in the solar plexus with such unexpected force that he lost his footing and crashed to the ground six feet away.

Shocked and winded, he forced his head up – his eyes were swimming with agony, but through the haze of pain he saw two shapes writhing on the slope. Nenya was grappling with a monster in black.

That was all his body needed to burst into adrenaline-soaked overdrive.

He launched himself at the shape, all pain forgotten, knocking the creature off-balance and sending them spinning over the basalt. He had no idea what the thing was, where it had come from or how strong it might be – he only knew that by pushing him away, Nenya had put herself in danger instead.

He somehow yanked his shortsword from the scabbard and twisted it frantically, trying to stab the blade into the attacker's side. Whether he found his mark or not, he couldn't tell – it was all sweat and harsh breath and grasping hands. One of those hands found his throat, and _squeezed…_

"_No,"_ said a coldly powerful voice above them. "Touch him and die."

In one fluid moment the pressure was gone, and Nenya was there – colossally, incredibly, hauling the monster bodily into the air with the ease of a giant lifting a baby. She held it by the throat for a fraction of a second, then threw it to the ground and smashed her hammer into its chest with the force of a falling boulder. There was a spray of blood and a terrible crunching sound. The thing gurgled and lay still.

"What–" Caius began weakly, but was cut off as she floundered to him, dropped to her knees, grabbed his ears and kissed him like a woman possessed. "Hey! I'm alright, honestly I'm alright – mphf – _Nenya –"_

"Sorry," she said breathlessly after a long moment, sitting back and releasing him.

"Um, no, carry on," Caius said, slightly dazed.

"I just – when I saw it behind you..." she stopped, clearly shaken. "It would be bad for me, if anything happened to you."

"Glad to hear it," he said, still feeling a little punch-drunk. "What the Dagon _was_ that thing?"

Still slightly pink from her enthusiastic show of affection, Nenya returned to the body and tugged the hood from its face – it _was_ a hood, Caius saw now the heat of battle had subsided. The thing was not in fact a monster but a person, albeit misshapen, dressed in a black robe. A Dunmer.

Nenya's eyes widened as the face was exposed. "Those're _Corprus_ symptoms," she said in disbelief. "But the black robe... I don't understand! Where did he _come_ from?"

"May I remind you we're sitting on an active volcano?" Caius demanded. "Can we save the speculation til later?"

"You didn't seem so worried about it a moment ago," she shot back, but as if to punctuate their words a sudden violent din shook the crater above. Steam gushed from the collapsed vent, and the earth shifted sickeningly beneath them. There was a heat-haze over the top of the mountain.

Nenya flung her satchelbag on to the ground and pawed frantically through its contents. Caius, who had started to run, looked back in disbelief. "What are you doing!? This is no time to sort out your handbag!"

"We can't outrun a volcano, you netch-head," Nenya snapped. "I've got an amulet somewhere… Almsivi Intervention – help me, Cauis, help me look! _Quickly!_"

He snatched a handful of junk and rifled through it, trying not to think of what would happen if they couldn't find it. Above them, the lip of Red Mountain suddenly glowed with a tongue of orange light, shimmering in fume.

Caius was sweating. _Come on, come on…_ something glinted from under a battered magical scroll in the outside pocket. He snatched at it, pulling the pendant free – "Here! Put it on, quick!"

She grabbed him and pulled him close, looping the chain clumsily over both their heads. The amulet flared with a sudden piercing light…

The next moment, Red Mountain exploded.

* * *

Morgiah ran and ran.

She couldn't explain how she knew. It was like everything else since Hermaeus Mora – it came in a flash of realisation that jolted her mind out of her body and into somewhere else, where everything was clear, and nothing was false… so as she ran full-tilt down the sunset streets of Vivec, she made for the Palace. The place that had once been a benevolent presence overlooking the city; now, with the god gone, it was a husk. An empty shell.

Across the bridge – past the statues – through the High Fane – up the steps – mustn't stop – must reach him – push open the door –

And there he was. On the cold and deserted dais, standing so quietly and solemnly, his hair falling over his eyes.

He looked so young…

"Little brother."

He looked up. "It's gone, isn't it?"

The simple statement could have referred to so many things that were now irreparably shattered, but she assumed he meant the golem. How he knew she could not guess.

"Yes," she said gently. "Yes it has, Hesleth."

It was over. Brisienna would have reached her superiors by now, and it would be a fate worse than death that awaited. High Treason against the Emperor; oh, Helseth!

Worse… A fate worse than death…

She was walking slowly towards him as if magnetically pulled, step by step. When she reached the dais, he moved too. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, the space between them closed and they were in each other's arms.

It was the embrace she had waited her whole life for.

She buried her face in his neck and felt the fur on his robes, smelt the cedar-oil he used on his hair. The years dropped away; there was no treason, no Akulakhan, no kingship… standing there on the dais, they could have been any brother and sister in the world, any siblings affectionately greeting each other after a long separation. And strangely enough, that was exactly what it felt like.

They parted, and he smiled at her. Their eyes were level; they had always been exactly the same height. She was smiling back before she realised he was holding a knife.

"I didn't have the courage," he said, his voice coming as if from across a great gulf. "But now you're here…"

She looked from the knife to him, and back again. She should have balked, but it was as though she was watching the scene from above, and couldn't feel the fear she ought to. Only detached calm, and a little sadness.

"Helseth," she began.

"One last gift to me," he cut her off softly. "Please. As a sister."

She was suddenly irresistibly reminded of that distant day they'd snuck into the Wayrest treasury and been caught; she had sulked through the following admonishment and hidden her hands behind her back, but to her surprise Helseth had opened his palm stoically for the lash of the birch-cane. Another world. How had it come to this?

Her fingers closed around the hilt.

"I loved you, Morgiah," said Helseth. "Very much."

"As I did you," she whispered.

He bent his head. She kissed his brow, and the knife went deep.

* * *

When a spiderweb is cut through, all the threads hang loose, separate and lost.

Where were you when it happened, people say? What were you doing when you heard the news?

In Almalexia, crowds gather to watch the vast plume of smoke beyond the horizon. Some cry in alarm, some whisper and point, others clutch each other to seek comfort. At the edge of the throng there is a face, anonymous among hundreds. He looks at the plume with silent shrewdness, then slinks away with the agility of a panther.

In a rented inn-room in Godsreach, a Khajiit looks out from the window with her claws digging nervously into the sill, fearing for the safety of a friend.

In a Tribunal Temple in Ald Rhun, an Imperial and a Nord materialize in the Intervention room, shaken and smoke-stained. An amulet drops from the Nord's left hand; her right is gripping her companion's so hard her fingers are white.

In Vivec, people climb to the top of the cantons; from there, the entire mountain is visible. With all eyes turned away from the Palace, no-one will ever know that a woman kneels on the dais inside, a knife discarded on the floor beside her.

The wheels turn; day falls to night. The sky of Vvardenfell glows with macabre fire. And Akulakhan burns and is buried, like so many other hopes and fears and dreams.

* * *

Time is always moving in circles. We started in Mournhold, and so this is where we find ourselves once more, in a shut-away room of the Royal Palace. There is a marble slab. The light is dim and flickering from the dozens of candles that surround the body upon it.

Morgiah stood beside the shell that had once been her brother, and was expressionless, like carven stone. Unbearably, the soft glow of candlelight leant colour and vitality to Helseth's cold features; it was almost as if for one moment, the gods had turned the world upside down so that he was alive, and she was dead.

Her face was a void. The candles burnt on and on.

Footsteps in the hallway; the door opening. And Barenziah, witness to four centuries, opened the door to what was left of her children.

For one moment they simply looked at each other, unable to speak, agony writhing like a snake between them. Then Barenziah's face crumpled like a ruin, and she threw herself into her daughter's arms.

Something came loose in Morgiah then. She was not a grown woman any more; she was a child, and the two of them clung desperately, hopelessly together, like survivors of a shipwreck. The tears came easily, she registered dully; she had thought for many years that she'd purged herself of that particular weakness. From the wetness in her hair and the way the arms around her shook, it seemed Barenziah had finally found something to weep for, too.

Such bitter irony that the thing to finally bring this family together was the death of one third of it.

From the abyss of the past; oh, do you see? Hermaeus Mora, his voice like the etching of an epitaph: _You will pay for this thing with the blood of your own heart, with the blood of those you have forgotten you love. You will twist the knife in their veins. That is the price. You will pay it; not yet, not perhaps for many years. But you will pay._

Horror rose in her like a poison, choking, drowning.

What had put Helseth's feet on the long path to treason and execution, the only thing that could have convinced her to grant his last request? Had the Daedra Prince simply seen what would happen, or had he taken the threads of fate himself and rewoven them for his blood price? In seeking the Infinium, had she written her own brother's death sentence?

Barenziah slowly released her, the shaking of her limbs subsiding, the first wave of the storm over. Her tear-streaked face was like that of another person, another life, where no barriers had ever stood between a mother and daughter's love. As if to complete the charade, she raised a hand and stroked a lock of Morgiah's hair back into place, tucking it into the teeth of the enamelled ruby comb.

"I told you to bring him back," she whispered, the accusation helpless and impotent.

"And so I did."

Barenziah's looked older than Morgiah had ever seen her, even older than when she had begged Helseth be found. Had it only been yesterday? It seemed a lifetime ago. She had known then, Morgiah realised. They had both known, deep down.

"You will be Queen, you know."

Morgiah felt the poison rise again, surely it would come bubbling from her lips at any second. "I know."

"You will be a better one." There was no reassurance in Barenziah's words. It was part warning, part command, overlaid by iron prophecy.

"Yes." Unlike her mother's proclamation, Morgiah's reply spoke no certainty, but there was something else: a glimmer, however small, of hope.

Barenziah leant forward and kissed her daughter's brow, unwittingly echoing the scene of her son's death. Then she left.

Alone with her dead, Morgiah stood vigil.

She walked around the altar, restless. Making the slow circle of steps around Helseth's corpse occupied her body if not her mind, like the grinding of a prayer wheel, turning, turning. All the Kings gone, one by one. Old Eadwyre, mercifully in his tomb before he could see his family tear itself apart. Reman, a pawn in a game he never knew he was playing. Helseth, the eternal seeker, reaching always for adulation and approval and respect and fear and love. The Worm King, lifting his glass to an academic acquaintance, the pourer of wine and the sparrer of words, the jack of dead diamonds and the king of dead hearts.

There are only four Kings in a pack, and when they're gone, you can't play anymore.

Something glinted in the corner of the room. Morgiah stopped circling, her eyes drawn to the darkness beyond the candlelight.

Helseth wasn't laid out in the Temple; he'd been kept in the Palace saferoom to which Morgiah had Recalled. She'd used one of her remaining self-made scrolls to get them out of the High Fane – there was no way she could have carried him through the streets of Vivec.

She had made more than one scroll, she remembered. The rest she had given to Eadwyrd and Gwynabyth, when she'd sent them to Tel Fyr.

The glint was stronger now. She stepped towards it, knees suddenly weak. Her heart drummed like a frantic hummingbird. Kneeling, a wild roar filling her head like a malefic tempest, she closed her hand around the object that nestled like a coiled serpent in the corner of the room.

It was an impossibly large soulgem, and it was red, red, red.


	40. If You Do Not Have The Name

**A/N: **Thank you to the last chapter's reviewers! It's cool to see new names popping up, even though we're right at the finish line. It's great to know that such a crazy wall of text - 120,000 words, what is wrong with me! - is not immediately putting people off. AdrianB, thank you from the bottom of my heart for your wonderful praise - I'm sorry I don't have much more story to give you! Blood Drenched Scorpion, welcome, and Clodia welcome back. I know I keep saying we're at the final push, but... we really are now. Seriously. I totally promise.

Love love love. xxx

* * *

The King And I

Chapter Thirty-Eight – If You Do Not Have The Name, You Cannot Give Him Anything Real

* * *

It was quiet in the Palace. From the east-facing window in the Royal bedchamber, a thin line of pre-dawn light began to seep over the horizon. Ghostlight. In its transitory glow, everything was the soft colour of a spiderweb – the polished stone of the Palace wall, the filmy drapes hanging like discarded wings… and the face of the woman.

It wasn't only the ghostlight that made her face grey, of course. Dunmer are all grey; ash grey. But there were three spots of bright blood-red that sang out in the chill dawn, and two of them were Morgiah's eyes.

The third was something she held in her hand. It was hard and faceted. It seemed to glow from within, pulsating like a heartbeat.

There was a knock on the door, and she slipped the thing into the bureau drawer quiet as a whisper before the servant entered.

"Your Highness, it is time."

Morgiah stood.

* * *

Almalexia was a spectacle of colour and light.

After the sudden shock of the eruption, the atmosphere of the city had turned to one of carnival. Rumours of the manner of Helseth's demise had flown though the streets – he was mad, he had gone to Red Mountain to end his life – no, he had secretly been plotting with the Emperor to subdue Morrowind for once and for all, using deep sorcery to make the mountain to explode – no, he had been devising a scheme to _overthrow_ the Emperor, and it had gone terribly wrong… and so on. The tales ranged from the wildly erroneous to the dangerously accurate, but of course, the people would never know which was which. The eruption had proved short-lived, and that was all that mattered.

The rumours all agreed on one thing, however: Helseth was dead. And fairly or unfairly, the people of Morrowind had decided this was something to celebrate. Cruel, but predictable – old King Llethan had been popular, and Helseth had not. Such is the fickle nature of public opinion.

In the bedecked streets, the festivities were tinged with the fever that comes from intense fear mixed with tentative hope. Speculation ran like wildfire; What was this Morgiah like? Would she be a strong ruler? Those who knew of her exploits in Firsthold said yes. Some simply declared anyone would be better than Helseth. Others said no; she was the King's blood and sooner or later, madness will out.

Time will tell.

In a dingy bar steeped in gossip and scandal, a mer with a crossbow on his back stared vacantly into the throng.

Solon had not left the city. Something was keeping him here, although he couldn't have said what. After all, he had a plan now, a plan that involved returning to the Ascadian Isles to take the reins of a new and very interesting career… And yet, he had passed by the city gates a dozen times in the last three days and not gone through.

He had the vague notion that he should contact Nenya before he left – perhaps Caius, too. But then again, he had never bothered informing people of his whereabouts before – why start now? Nenya would have means of finding him if she really needed to, not that that was likely. No, that could not be what was keeping him here. What, then?

Unfinished business with Morgiah? No, their dealings were well and truly concluded. She had dismissed him. Anything that happened to her was no longer any concern of his, and with Dren dead, neither did he need her protection.

He knocked back a glass of sujamma with practised ease, but the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach remained. He could not get used to this… _sensitivity. _He used to be a fortress, and now sixty years of repressed emotions were swarming over his battlements and playing a fanfare. But _why?_

It must be Dren. Giving up control for even one moment had broken some kind of dam in him, and now he couldn't patch it back up before the water flooded through. Well, he would not tolerate it any longer. He had been taking control all his life; he could do it again. He was going to leave, and he was going to do it _now._

He banged the glass down on the counter and stood up.

Something caught his eye.

_Oh,_ said his mind. _Oh. __**Oh.**_

The world narrowed to a finger-width.

She vacated the dark corner from which she had been watching him, winding through the crowd until they faced each other. Her copper hair was less thick and had lost some of its lustre, he saw, and a terrible scar stretched from chin to ear. A scalloped gold earring hid the edges of an ear mutilated by burning tongs.

He found it hard to speak. "I thought you were dead."

Felara Ules smiled, proving that while the vitality had been burned from her face, it could not be taken from her eyes. "So did I. For a while."

For the first time, he found himself lost for words.

He knew infatuation - not from himself, of course, but from others. This was different. You don't brave torture just for a pretty face. What did she want? Revenge? He couldn't have blamed her for that… but impossibly, her eyes told a different story.

He found his voice. "I… what they did to you…"

Her eyes took on a haunted look, chin tilting up defiantly. "You'll repay me, don't worry. But first… we have business, you and I. We have a national crime ring to operate."

He couldn't believe it. "You read my mind."

"No," she said. "You read _mine."_

The grin spread all over his face; he couldn't stop it. Yes, he would repay her. It might take years; decades, even. The longer the better. He would enjoy every second.

He angled his arm. "Shall we?"

She laughed the same laugh she had before, sliding her arm through his.

They stepped out into the city air.

* * *

The sun set, turning the world to gold in a single glorious minute. Nenya and Bomba 'Lurrina stood on a balcony overlooking Mournhold's Plaza Brindisi Dorom.

"I couldn't sleep until I heard you were back in the city," confessed the Khajiit. "When I saw the smoke …"

"I've faced worse than a volcano," Nenya grinned.

Bomba opened her mouth to speak, but decided that on reflection, this was probably true.

"So what happens now?" Nenya asked her. "What will you do?"

The Khajiit shrugged. "What is there ever to do?"

"I mean, where will you go? Back to Daggerfall?"

Bomba 'Lurrina hesitated. "I don't know… it was my home out of necessity, but is that enough? I don't own myself any more. I haven't for nearly thirty years."

Nenya looked down, picking at the buckle of her gauntlet. "The thing about being a hero," she said slowly, "is that if you don't watch it, you lose yourself to the legend. You get drowned. You're public property."

Bomba 'Lurrina smiled sadly to hear her own advice spoken back at her. In the pale gold of the dusk, her eyes were soft. "It happened to me," she whispered, turning to look at the younger girl, "but I don't think it will happen to you. You are young, and you already have something else to live for." She looked out to the sun, a rueful smile forming on her lips. "I got drowned years ago. I don't really belong anywhere now, not even Daggerfall."

Nenya frowned. "Don't be an ass. You don't have to give yourself up to a myth, a _story…"_ she set her lip. "Go back to Elsweyr."

Bomba's eyes widened. "Elsweyr? I… couldn't, I left so long ago…"

"Find your clan, your family. Find yourself, or you'll live never knowing."

Bomba was silent for a long time. Then- "And you? What will you do?"

"The same," she said, her voice full of quiet joy. "Home. Skyrim."

"And you think they will let you just walk away?"

Nenya shrugged, mischief in her eyes. "Oh, I'll tell them I'm going to Akavir or something."

Bomba 'Lurrina shook her head, a smile on her lips. The sun's rays struck out over the city, bathing the world in rose.

"Look," she said softly, pointing over the balcony. "The procession has reached the Temple."

In the plaza below a column of people slowly materialised, flanking the ornately dressed figure at its centre. Their emergence marked the end of a winding path through the city, past the massed ranks of the commons up to the Temple dais. Almalexia's remains might now be gathering dust somewhere in Clockwork City, but the Dunmer were traditionalists, and the house of the goddess had been Morrowind's coronation site for thirteen hundred years.

"Do you think she'll be a good queen?" Nenya looked worried. "Fat lot of good us going through all that ruckus if she turns out to be Helseth II."

The Khajiit smiled. "I think nine times out of ten, the Mournhold née Wayrest royal family turns out to be the thing you least expect."

Below, fanfare rang out as the distant Princess turned to kneel on the ancient stones. Bomba 'Lurrina faced her companion and took her hand, lacing their fingers together.

"Our paths are leading us in opposite directions," she told the younger woman gently. "I'm older than I act, you know. If I go to Elsweyr and you go to Skyrim, it is likely we shall never see each other again."

Nenya crushed their entwined hands to her chest, for once seeming as young as she was. They looked at each other, Nerevarine to Emperor's Agent, hero to hero.

Suddenly Nenya smiled, and the sun was outshone. "The Elder Scrolls can go hang," she whispered. "The future is never written."

* * *

The sinking sun blazed through the Bamz-Amschend statue and reflected off a crown, scattering light onto the upturned faces in the Plaza Brindisi Dorom. On the eve of 10th Rain's Hand 3E 429, Hlaalu Morgiah became Queen Morgiah I of Morrowind.

Despite the ominous calendar date, it did not rain.

* * *

_Vivat Morgiah Regina._

* * *

Everything heals in time.

Life resumed its inexorable pace, and Morrowind remained Morrowind. Countries are remarkably resistant things, and by and large the Dunmer don't allow volcanic eruptions to intrude on their day-to-day lives, having been used to such things for rather longer than their interprovincial neighbours.

As for the first actions of the new queen, they were unexpectedly devout. She would ensconce herself in an undisturbed room of the temple, she informed her court, to fast and pray and mourn her brother. The Dowager Queen Mother would handle the affairs of state for the first three weeks of the new queen's reign, and in a touching display of maternal love, insisted on being the one to deliver the meagre supplies of plain bread and water to her daughter's isolated sanctuary.

Rumours of this arrangement soon spread among the commons, who approved. Helseth had never spared much time for the gods, and prevalent opinion agreed that a pious monarch would make a pleasant change. The sight of Barenziah bringing small baskets of loaves to the temple each morning was strangely moving.

On the third morning, Barenziah bought her daughter's bread from a street vendor in the Great Bazaar, much to the delight of the general populace. With a fond smile at the gathering of pilgrims at the temple door, she disappeared through the small passage leading to Morgiah's sanctuary. Once inside, away from the crowd's gaze, she put her parcel on the table next to the baskets of the previous two days. All were unopened, and filled with rather stale rolls.

She cast an eye around the empty room, smiled, and left.

Three hundred miles away, an unadorned carriage carried Queen Morgiah I towards the Dragontail Mountains, Helseth's abandoned Mantella hidden under a fold of her cloak.

* * *

The ghostfall was as dark and boundless as she had remembered.

What was _not_ familiar was the weight. It had not been like this with Tellanaco; speed she remembered, yes, frantic rushing and the taste of tin and her heart in her mouth, but not this awful _heaviness_ – and why would that be? It dragged at her eyes and her breath. It dragged at her mind with fingers of black glass.

All Morgiah could do was hold the Mantella out like a beacon and wait for something, anything, to happen.

She had been received at the inner sanctum of Scourg Barrow with quiet courtesy. If the inhabitants were surprised, they did not show it, which perplexed her – surely the loss of their ancestral leader should have thrown them into chaotic disarray? But Necromancers are no strangers to death, and perhaps they had known all along that she would come. She showed them the cloak-clasp, told them what she knew, and watched as they drew the circle and charred the ancient brooch over a chalice of pearlescent fire.

_Remember the name._

She knew what she must do. She'd known ever since that terrible evening in Mournhold Palace when she felt Hermaeus Mora clawing at her mind, saw the ash and fire in the meeting-room, picked the cloak-clasp up off the floor. She knew she'd need it, because she'd read the words in Karethys' summoning book more than thirty years ago.

_for these beyngs an addytyonal levele of controle ys requyred. Thys maye be obtayned bye havynge yn thy possessyon an objecte formerlye belongyng to the partycular spyryt. Yn cases of extreme magnytude, thy wyll be compelled to speake the true and byrth-gyven name of the spyryt at the performance of the ceremonye_

Thirty years, and the page still stood out as vividly in her memory as the day she had read it. It had flashed before her eyes when she had seen a name in letters of fire from the depths of prophecy in the Glenumbra Moors, and again when she took the clasp from its bed of ash, and finally when her hand had closed on the impossible Mantella that should have been burning in the heart of Red Mountain hundreds of miles away... but wasn't.

She had once declared that she didn't believe in fate. Perhaps this was its retribution.

_Remember the name. Names have power. If you do not have the name, you cannot give him anything real. Remember the name._

Morgiah opened her mouth and spoke the true and birth-given name of the King of Worms.

It rippled outwards from the body she didn't have, fluttering like parchment, like smoky birds. The ripples grew and grew until Oblivion resonated with the sound of her voice. And suddenly, blissfully, the weight dropped away as if she had been lifted out of a vice.

"I knew you would come."

Her heart leapt so far she thought she could see it for one moment, glistening like a diamond in her hands. The words came from behind her, but she did not turn around.

Her voice was clear as a chime in the whispering air. "And I knew you would not have gone through."

"Knew? Or only hoped?"

She smiled for pure joy; she couldn't help it. "Did you _know_ I would come? Or did you only _hope?"_

She could feel his answering smile; she had always known his moods. "I might not have dared even that much had I been alone. One may be overwhelmed by Oblivion even with five thousand years of arcane knowledge, but _two_ may join forces and cling to the precipice in the hope that an old friend may come to show them the way back."

A stab of realisation crackled through her like lightning; there were two presences behind her...

"_Divayth Fyr?"_ she gasped, breathless.

"None other. We have learned much in this place together... You know, I was hoping that when we returned, you and I might make of him an _academic acquaintance."_

At first she was robbed of words, the mouth she didn't have falling to the floor. Then suddenly she laughed with delighted abandon, thirty long years crystallising into a single perfect moment.

She turned around, finally, and saw what he was.

"You are different," she smiled, holding out the Mantella.

"You are not, and I am glad," he said as he took it.

She thought back to Tellanaco, the years spreading out in her mind, a landscape of jade hills and saffron valleys and violet horizons. "You never did tell me my shape."

He pushed the Mantella into his heart as if through paper; it glowed red. Blood and sunrise and promise. "I have one bottle of the Verkarth Arbour 387 left. If you come and share it with me, I may yet enlighten you."

She tipped back her head and laughed again, laughed like chiming bells, like crashing waves, like celebration. It echoed over and over until the darkness rang with it. The Mantella cascaded into blinding flame, the world collapsing in on itself, the ghostfall dying, the air of Mundus touching her face like a lover's fingers.

Above, Tamriel's first star winked into the sky.

* * *

_~fin.~_


	41. Epilogue, or Interlude The Last

The King And I

Epilogue, or Interlude The Last

* * *

_Firsthold, Summurset Isle, 25__th__ Morning Star 3E 429. It is six weeks before the present day._

* * *

The wheels of the carriage rattled. Firsthold was still in slumber, scattered lights glowing softly behind the intricate windows.

Morgiah leant back against the cushions of the inconspicuous four-horser, looking with half-closed eyes at the crystal towers glittering in the pre-dawn light. Stars still dusted the sky. She was fairly certain, although she couldn't have said why, that this was the last time. She would not come back to this place again.

Reman's funeral had taken place the week before, with proper state ceremony. She was surprised how much it had affected her. He had been a good man, and an inordinately gentle husband – more so, she suspected, than she had ever deserved. Her departure this morning would leave the Altmer in relief – they could put Reman's son on the throne without the messy business of relegating Morgiah to Dowager Queen, or some similar title of courtly dismissal. Her withdrawal was gracious if nothing else, and perhaps would warm her a little in the commons' retrospective thoughts. No matter. It was over now.

In her palm, like a watchful snake eye, lay the beryl-gem.

She smirked at the thought of the reception she could expect from Helseth. She was ruefully pragmatic about his lack of desire for sibling companionship. Certainly, he had not visited during her long exile in the Summurset Isles; his sights had been on Wayrest, and now presumably on Morrowind. How surprised he would be to see her… would he be glad? The part of her that still ran carefree with him through the treasuries of Wayrest hoped yes. She was not by nature sentimental, but after years of the Firsthold citizens' coldness, she longed for the unquestioned bond of brother and sister.

The carriage rumbled on, leaving twenty years of her life in its ruts. For some reason, what she felt most of all was excitement.

East now, towards the climbing sun. And everything would come around; the Lady In Red would make a new beginning.

And start again at Chapter One.


	42. Moments

The King And I

Moments

* * *

A Dunmer couple take a stroll through the Plaza Brindisi Dorom, and observe a statue.

"That's new, isn't it?" remarks the lady. "I don't recognise it."

"Looks so," replies her companion, noting the sharp new etching around the base of the plinth. The statue itself, a simplistic image of a young man and woman in a chaste embrace, gleams in the sunlight. "Odd thing to have here, though. That's Breton marble. You'd think they'd use a local stone."

They pass by, engrossed in idle conversation. Beneath the feet the feet of the stone lovers, a small plaque bears the Royal seal. The inscription reads: _"For services rendered. Amor In Alchemia."_

* * *

A jailor regards the plaintive face of his beautiful prisoner, and contemplates the key in his possession.

It's wrong for her to be locked up here, he thinks fervently. That Helseth; he's dead now, and by all accounts he was treasonous – and mad, too, if the reports could be believed. It's hardly a stretch to imagine he imprisoned this charming and delicate lady out of spite. She clearly wouldn't hurt a fly.

Cornflower-blue eyes watch the key, wide and beseeching. Her hands are clasped at her breast – he shouldn't really have let her keep that ring, but she'd said it was a gift from her late husband, and it seemed cruel to take it away.

"Please," she whispers, her lips quivering as she tries valiantly to keep tears at bay. Such sweet tears. "Good sir, I will give you amnesty in Wayrest. Please…"

The jailor unlocks the door.

* * *

Six major players in Almalexia's criminal underworld meet in a room above the Grieving Kagouti Inn.

"The question is not whether foul play was involved," snaps one mer, the chairman of one of the city's largest and wealthiest banks. "What does it matter? The question is what can be _salvaged._ The Cammona Tong must be picked up and rejuvenated, and we all know it must be someone in this room who assumes control –"

"I quite agree," comes a soft voice from the darkness outside the lamplight.

The mer nearest the door, the head of the most extensive slave-trade network on the Black Marsh border, snatches for her crossbow before she realises it isn't there. The source of the voice materialises like a vision, the smoky light falling across his exquisitely sculpted face, his devastating eyes. In his hand, the slaver's crossbow is held with artful precision.

"The _question_," says the mer in a voice like sinful velvet, "is who will be _leaving_ this room. You can decide who assumes control if you manage that. It won't do you much good, though." He exchanges a look of devious glee with the companion behind him; a head of copper curls glints in the light, a feral smile on a scarred face. "We'll have quite a good head start, you see."

Even when the crossbow's safety catch clicks off a moment later, they still cannot look away from his face. Enchanted.

* * *

A nomad Ohmes Raht tribe in the Noquin-Al desert of Elsweyr welcome a stranger to their fire.

"I was given directions to you in Cori Darglade," the Khajiit tells them hesitantly, her posture betraying her nervousness. "I've been trying to find you. It's been so long, I wasn't sure if I even knew who to look for… or if I could come back at all…"

She shows them her tribemark on the nape of her neck, faded from years without renewal under the lustrous mane of red hair.

There is a strong clan-bond tradition in the A'Lurrina tribe. Voices are raised in celebration; the newcomer is surrounded, kissed, welcomed. The fire is fed, Sugar passed round, and the night is alive with the talk and song of reunited family.

* * *

A stallholder in the Winterhold marketplace is selling honeyapple to a cheerful blonde woman.

"You eat so much honey I'm surprised you don't live in a hive," her companion grumbles, a military-looking Imperial whose gruff voice doesn't quite conceal the affection beneath it.

The young blonde holds the honeyapple to his lips, eyes sparkling with amusement. With the air of long-suffering compliance, the man sniffs at it dubiously. Before he can take a bite, however, she smushes the sticky coating onto the end of his nose – then, with lightning speed, darts forward to lick it off and transfer it to his mouth in a cheeky kiss.

As he watches the Imperial subsequently chase the young woman down the street, her delighted peals of laughter ringing through the snowy air, the stallholder has the sudden urge to pack up his wares early so he can go home and kiss his wife. Love is catching.

* * *

A courier delivers a parcel to Mournhold Palace.

The Queen is at her dressing-table when the maid brings the package, staring pensively into the sunrise. Her hair, as yet undressed, falls about her shoulders like a dark cloak. There is a quiet peacefulness about her Majesty that the maid thinks is new; her restiveness, her clockwork coldness has all but vanished this past month.

Queen Morgiah I opens the package. From its confines she draws a green gem, glowing with the telltale signs of renewed enchantment. She reads the letter with a faint smile, her lips curving into something secret, conspiratorial.

The address is finely scripted, the hand curiously archaic. The title no longer hails her as "Princess", but uses her true and birth-given name.

The rest you will have to work out for yourselves.


	43. Afterword

Afterword

* * *

And that – absolutely, completely, finally – is _it._

I wasn't sure how to write this afterword (in fact part of me was sure I'd never get here at all), and I'll probably look back over it in a week or a month and realise it's all gibberish... but I didn't feel I could cut this baby free without a farewell.

Seven years is a long time. When I sat at my tiny desk in my first year of university doodling chibi Kings of Wormses on my Euripidean Tragedy notes instead of getting some work done like a sensible mature adult, I had no idea what incredible friends I was going to meet in the Elder Scrolls fandom, and just how much they would help me grow and change as a person, never mind as a writer. There are some people I can never repay for the support, encouragement and friendship they've shown me over the years. I know this is only fanfiction and writing's not even my livelihood, but it makes no difference to me – the people I've met through writing this story are the reason the journey has been such a fantastically enjoyable one.

About the story itself... one thing to mention again is that when I began writing this, the only references to the King of Worms' name were some rather obscure texts in The Imperial Library. Of course, the plotline that Morgiah is the only living person to have discovered this name is now ludicrous in the light of every Cyrodiilian in Oblivion talking about _Mannimarco,_ but I'll just have to beg your indulgence. Suspend your disbelief for the sake of an old AU story. Those who have played all four Elder Scrolls games will probably see names they recognise popping up all over the place throughout K&I, however - wherever I've dropped a name, it's usually a real ES character I've picked up from some obscure corner of Tamriel, either from the games themselves or the corresponding lore. My bookmark to TIL has been clicked so many times I'm surprised it hasn't gone on strike. Now the whole thing's finished, you'll be able to pick out dozens of breadcrumbs early on in the story that link up with the final chapters. I ended up making a bit of a game out of it. Some are obvious, like the text from Karethys' book, and some are not.

As far as continuity goes, after seven years I can't see the wood for the trees, and I thrive on criticism. If I've left plotholes or explained things sloppily or unintentionally left anything out, please make suggestions or just outright rap me on the knuckles for it, because even though K&I's all wrapped up I'd still like to continue to improve on what I've already written. I doubt I'll ever write anything so long again (although never say die, I suppose), so this will be my standing amateur novel and I'd like it to be as good as it possibly can be.

I guess all that remains is to say, in the best of sobbing Gwynneth Paltrow hot mess traditions, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart to each and every reader. It's been a hell of a ride!

Love, hugs and reanimated Dwemer golems,

**Rumpleteasza xxx**


End file.
